


I'm Still Up and Driving

by KouriArashi



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Stiles, Bullying, Dark, Derek is Not a Failwolf, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Sexual Abuse, Plot sneaks in, Post Season 2, Pre-Slash, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out, Slow Build, Stilinski Family Feels, irredeemable Jackson, looking for Erica and Boyd, okay maybe a little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2017-12-29 13:38:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 58,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KouriArashi/pseuds/KouriArashi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson decides to teach Stiles a lesson for the interest he shows in Lydia. Stiles doesn't say anything until four months later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know where this fic came from.... my subconscious truly goes strange places. Fair warning that this story will be EXTREMELY TRIGGERY for non-consensual sex as well as other themes surrounding lack of agency (ie Lydia and Peter, Derek being forced to give Gerard the bite), as well as bullying.
> 
> Basically a canon-divergent AU. Starts immediately after episode 2.08, Raving. Will follow the events of season 2 with only a few minor changes and most of the fic will take place between seasons 2 and 3 and diverge from canon during that summer. 
> 
> Fans of Jackson will probably want to give this story a pass, as he's portrayed in an extremely negative light (probably more so than he actually canonically deserves). 
> 
> Whew, I'm nervous about this fic, I hope you guys like it. <3 I'm also going to start with an estimated chapter count even though it'll probably be wrong.

The Stilinski house is dark and silent as Stiles lets himself in, which is no surprise, given the hour. By the time they had been sure that Scott was recovering from whatever it was Victoria Argent had done to him, they had ducked all the cops crawling around the murder scene, and left the rave, it had been nearly one o’clock in the morning. Stiles is exhausted. He’s had worse days lately, but not many.

Despite the hour, there’s a small light on in the dining room. Stiles goes in to see his father sitting there with a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass, along with a photo album. He swallows and looks away. “Hey, uh . . . hey, Dad,” he says, feeling things out, wondering how much his father has had to drink. When his father doesn’t reply, he says, “Look, uh . . . I really am sorry. About everything. But the police van thing most of all. It, uh, it seemed like a fun idea at the time.”

“Yeah,” is all his father says in reply, which is a lot like a knife to the gut. Stiles slowly pulls out the chair across from him and sit down. There’s so much going on, and he knows that he should tell his father, but he’s petrified, paralyzed by the idea of the knowledge getting him killed. Of course, given everything that’s happening, it seems just as likely that ignorance could get him killed. Either way, Stiles foresees a long future of bitter regret.

But it isn’t just the supernatural stuff he needs to tell his father about. It’s Jackson.

_/ “What are you doing at my girl’s party, Stilinski? You should know better than to show your face here.” /_

He can recall standing out in the woods with Scott and Allison, outside the police van where they were holding Jackson captive, and saying, “Why don’t we just kill him?”

He doesn’t think that Scott believed he really meant it, but he did. Because he knows what Jackson is, and it has nothing to do with the failed attempt to turn him into a werewolf. He knows what Jackson _really_ is, and he has for a long time – since the winter before, the night of Lydia’s party, the night he had had too much to drink and Jackson had decided to ‘teach him a lesson’ for the way he always tried to get Lydia’s attention.

But nobody listened to him and now Jackson is still out there, still killing people, and apparently under the control of a ghost or zombie, if what he said at the rave was any indication. Stiles wants to care. He does. But he’s so damned tired. And the two inches of whiskey in his father’s glass are killing him.

“Look, uhm, I know that we shouldn’t have done it,” Stiles says, fiddling. They had meant to go to his father and explain things, but Jackson had gotten there first, and brought in other adults, and now everything’s messed up and he doesn’t know how to fix it. “Is there something I can do? I mean, I’m sixteen, they shouldn’t hold you responsible for my actions – can I write a letter, pay a fine – if it’ll help to let Jackson press charges, I’ll face up to that.”

Because that’s what he wants to do. Spend more time with Jackson. The time alone in the police van with him had been slow, exquisite torture. Even knowing Jackson had been chained up and ostensibly helpless hadn’t made him feel a lot better about it. Even now, days later, he’s still been having nightmares about it. Why did the kanima have to be _Jackson_ , of all people? He could have dealt better with just about anyone in Beacon Hills.

_/ “Do you think I haven’t noticed the way you’re always sniffing around after her? Did you think I was just going to let you get away with that? You’re going to regret showing your face here tonight, you jerk-off. I’m going to_ make _you regret it.” /_

“No,” his father says, “I don’t really think that’ll help, son.” He reaches out and takes a sip of the whiskey, rubs a hand over his face. “I appreciate the offer, but no.”

“Oh.” Stiles studies his hands. “Okay.”

Even if he does explain to his father, he can never explain to Jackson’s parents. Sometimes it seems crazy to him that there’s this entire supernatural world that exists without anybody knowing about it. He wants to write letters to the editor and post videos of kanima-Jackson on the internet and make everyone aware of it. But there’s this deep-seated voice of reason that says that would be an extremely bad idea. Humans are exceptionally bad at facing frightening things. They would go after anyone who they had even a vague reason to suspect was different with pitchforks and torches. It would be the Salem witch trials all over again, only aided by automatic weaponry and instant communication across the globe.

So there’s nothing he can say on that subject that will make it better.

But there are other subjects that might. Other reasons, _valid_ reasons, that he might have wanted to make Jackson suffer, that would put his actions in a less ridiculous light. It might ruin his own life, but he could save his father’s, if only he can find a way to explain it to him.

_/ “I’ll teach you what it’s like to have someone after you who won’t take no for an answer,” Jackson says, twisting his arm around his back. /_

Stiles shudders a little. “What if I, uhm, what if I talk to Jackson’s parents?”

Sheriff Stilinski pours another inch of whiskey into the glass. “Like you talked to them at the station the other day?”

“Shit, I’m sorry, that, that was a mistake, I didn’t mean to – ”

“You never mean to,” his father says woodenly. “Jesus, kid. What could have possessed you – out of all the kids at your damned high school, why him? Why the God damned DA’s son?”

It’s the perfect opportunity, and Stiles know he won’t get a better one, but the words stick in his throat. “Because he . . .” Say it, he lectures himself, say it, you fucking coward, just man up and say it. “Because he’s the one who raped me at Lydia’s party last winter.”

His father flinches back as if Stiles slapped him across the face. His hand jerks to one side, knocking over the glass of whiskey, and he stares at Stiles for a long moment before he abruptly pushes back from the table. He takes a step back, then to the side, as if he doesn’t know where to go. “Jesus, Stiles, you – you don’t – do you have any idea how serious an accusation that is, if, if you don’t have proof, if you’re just making this up to get him in trouble or get yourself out of it – ”

Now Stiles is the one to flinch, and the lump in his throat is becoming impossible to swallow. He opens his mouth to say something but realizes there’s nothing he can say. So he just stands up and walks out. Behind him, he can hear his father calling his name, and he breaks into a jog. He gets into the Jeep just as his father makes it onto the front porch, and ignores him as he backs out and starts driving.

He’s too upset to process, to plan, to think. He just drives. He hits main street, which leads him to the old country road which takes him out of town. A ten minute winding drive through the woods, and he’s on Route 299, which will eventually take him to Interstate 5, if he drives that long. He’s not really aware of that or intending to do it. He just drives.

_/ “Hey, Stiles.” It’s a girl he doesn’t know very well. “Lydia wants to see you. She’s really glad you came. Upstairs. Second door on the right.”_

_If he hadn’t had so much to drink, Stiles would have seen the trap a mile away. But he was tipsy, maybe even outright drunk, and it was exactly what he wanted to hear, and he bought into every word of it, thanking the girl before he went up the stairs. But of course, it wasn’t Lydia waiting for him. It was Jackson._

_He was drunk, too, drunk and pissed off, because Stiles was always looking at Lydia, and Jackson is many things, but secure in his relationship with Lydia is not one of them. Jackson pushed him around, hit him a few times, said nasty things about his parentage. All the while Stiles protested that it wasn’t like that, sure he thinks Lydia’s pretty, but he’s not a poacher, why can’t he just be nice to a girl?_

_It was a complete lie and Jackson knew it, and before Stiles could figure out a way to escape, Jackson had cleaned his clock and he was on his back on the bed, groaning. Jackson leaned over him and turned him over, twisting an arm up around his back. “I’ll teach you what it’s like to have someone after you who won’t take no for an answer.”_ /

Stiles realizes that his hands are shaking so hard that the wheel is wobbling. He sees a road and turns off, pulling over. His chest aches, heart beats wildly out of control, throat tight and sore. He can barely draw in air, and he wonders if he’s going to die.

His phone chimes, and then chimes again, and he reaches over and turns it off without looking to see who’s messaging him. He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t care. He just needs the world to leave him alone for a little while.

_/ He could smell the liquor on Jackson’s breath as the other boy pushed him down, squashed his face into the mattress, fumbled at his belt. “Jackson, what – what’re you – ” Stiles protested, but then he realized what was happening. He started to shout but Jackson just pushed him down again so any noise he could make was muffled in the blankets._

_Stiles struggled but Jackson was stronger, and Jackson had gravity on his side. “Don’t think I’m enjoying this, you fucking shit stain. I just want to make sure you stay away from my girl. Hell, I want to make sure you stay away from everyone. Go die in a ditch somewhere after this, make the world a better place.” /_

He had tried to pretend it hadn’t happened. Hell, he had welcomed the arrival of werewolves and chaos into his life because at least that was something he could focus on. And he pretended everything was normal. He went to lacrosse and did his classwork, and if Scott noticed something off about him, well, their entire orderly world had been upended around them. Who wouldn’t act a little weird after that?

And he can still remember the first day of school, clear as day – “Hey, Lydia, you look . . . like you’re gonna ignore me!” And he had let her go, not chased after her, not tried to compliment her dress or her shoes, because there was only so far he could go now. But somehow they kept getting thrown together, all of them, and every time he thought he might tell someone what had happened, there had been a photograph e-mailed to him. A photograph of him, that night at the party. Curled up on the bed in the guest room afterwards, naked, crying. Or one of him during, though it’s always cut off so Jackson’s face can’t be seen.

It must have been Jackson who took it, set up his phone beforehand to document the experience. Stiles is pretty sure that nobody else knows what happened between the two of them. It would have been all over school like wildfire if anybody did. It’s just him and Jackson – but the other teenager has made it clear that it doesn’t have to be that way. Stiles has read the stories of the girls this has happened to, who have been called sluts and made outcasts and eventually driven to suicide. He has no intention of that being him.

Or at least he hadn’t, except now Jackson is a lizard monster and his father’s lost his job and everything has – he wouldn’t have thought it was possible – gotten even worse.

The panic attack gradually abates. He finds himself able to breathe again. When he finally gets himself together, he looks at his watch to see that it’s nearly two thirty. He has no idea how long he’s just been sitting there on the side of the road.

He reaches over and picks up his phone. When he turns it back on, he’s got twenty-eight messages. Twenty of them are from his father – three voice, seventeen text – and the other eight are from Scott, all texts. Which means that his father was worried enough to call Scott in the middle of the night to see if he had heard from his son.

The idea of going home makes him nauseous, but what else can he do? He can’t leave now. Not when everything else is going on. He’ll just have to face the music.

He doesn’t listen to or read any of the messages. He just sends one to each of the concerned parties. The one to Scott reads, ‘sry Dad worried u. am ok, c u tomorrow.’ Then he sends one to his father. ‘On my way home now. See you soon.’ Then he turns the phone off again because he just doesn’t want to know what either of them has to say about anything.

It takes him longer to get back than he would have anticipated. He hadn’t realized how far he had gone, or maybe he hadn’t realized how fast he had been driving. It’s past three when he pulls into the driveway. As soon as the door to the Jeep shuts, his father is on the front porch, hands white-knuckled on the railing. He looks like he’s aged ten years in the last hour.

Stiles walks up the front path then past his father, not even looking at him. He’s sure that if he does, he’ll lose what little composure he has left. His father just stands there wordlessly as he walks by. For a few moments, Stiles thinks that that might be it. That they might honestly never talk about what had happened before he left the house.

But his father catches up with him just as he starts up the stairs. He grabs him by the arm, turning him around slightly. Stiles’ gaze flickers to his face, but then drops to his shoes. “Jesus, Stiles, I thought – ” It takes a moment for the sheriff to be able to form a complete sentence. “You don’t have to talk to me or, or forgive me or anything, but you have to – at least let me say it. I fucked up, and I’m sorry, and I – I’m afraid that if I let you go into your room without saying anything, you’ll never come out of it.”

Stiles pushes a hand through his hair. “I won’t . . . hurt myself,” he finally says, though he still won’t really look at his father. “I promise. I just – want to get some sleep, okay? I’m really fucking tired.”

“Okay.” His father lets him go. “Okay, I . . . g’night, son. I’ll . . . see you in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Night.”

He goes the rest of the way up the stairs and into his room. He doesn’t even bother to undress, but just kicks off his shoes before flopping down onto his bed and closing his eyes, hoping that he falls asleep sooner rather than later.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“Hey!” Scott catches up with Stiles as he goes up the front steps of the school. “Hey, what was going on last night? Your dad was seriously _freaking_ when he called me.”

“Yeah, it was nothing,” Stiles says, waving this off. “We just got in an argument because of him, you know, getting put on leave because of the whole thing with Jackson and the van, and . . . I don’t really want to talk about it. Besides, we’ve got more important things to worry about, like how a dead guy could be controlling the kanima and shit.”

“Right,” Scott says. They put their heads together on that for a little while and come to the conclusion that, as usual, they have no idea what the fuck is going on. Everything that happened at the rave seems to have only made things worse. “Hey, what time are you picking me up tonight?”

“For what?” Stiles asks, as they dump their things at their respective desks.

“Lydia’s birthday party,” Scott says.

Stiles fumbles his books and spills them all over the floor. “Oh, uh, yeah,” he says, wondering if there’s any excuse he can give not to go. He’s been dreading it since the moment it came up. Lydia’s house. Lydia’s party. At least he’s been invited this time. He doesn’t know whether or not Jackson will be there, given the current state of his and Lydia’s relationship. “I don’t know, eight-ish, I guess?”

“Okay, cool,” Scott says.

Stiles manages to get his things together and vows to spend the entire time by the pool and not drink anything alcoholic. He blitzes through most of his homework during study hall because he has important possibly-dead-people related research to do. Unfortunately, in this case he’s not even sure what to Google. ‘Murder lizard controlled by ghost’ doesn’t get him a lot of hits.

Derek and his pack are busy getting ready for the full moon, so he’s out as a resource, although Stiles makes a mental note that he still hasn’t had a chance to grab the alpha by the front of the shirt and demand to know what the hell he was thinking, giving someone like Jackson the bite. He’ll have to put that on his calendar. He’s tempted to work with Derek – who seems to be the only person besides him who’s considering ‘let’s kill Jackson’ as a valid option – but he knows that Scott would just get pissed off at him. He sighs and starts thinking about what to wear to the party as he jogs into the house. Something unattractive. He won’t even bring a present. No, Lydia would notice if he does that. What in God’s name can he possibly buy? What sort of present says ‘I still have a crush on you but totally don’t have a crush on you?’

Of course, he has to admit that his ‘I’ll just stay away from Lydia’ plan has crashed and burned for a variety of reasons, and they aren’t all werewolf related. Even when he convinces himself to avoid her, he can never do it for very long. He just kept hoping that if he can make her see how much he appreciates her – in so many ways that Jackson’ _doesn’t_ – she would dump his sorry ass. She deserves so much better. He doesn’t even care if he gets her in the end, doesn’t know that he’d even be able to ever look her in the eye after what Jackson did to him.

Then Jackson had to go and dump _her_ , and step all over her feelings doing it, and now Stiles is doubly confused about how he should react around her. Does he actually have a chance with her? Would it make him even more of a jerk to flirt with her while she’s on the rebound? Does she have any idea that he actually likes her _because_ of who she is, rather than _in spite of_ who she is?

Once inside the house, he just drops everything where he stands and lets his head thunk back against the door.

“Long day?” his dad asks, and Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Jesus, I forgot you’d be home,” he says, scooping up his stuff. “Uh, yeah, no, I just, school and stuff.” He hastens into the kitchen to get a drink and try to regain his equilibrium. His top half disappears into the refrigerator as he digs around for the last can of Cherry Coke. He had been half-hoping that the fact that there had been another murder would have gotten his father back to the station. Apparently not.

They stand in completely awkward silence for a few minutes.

“Well, I, uh,” Stiles says. “Homework. I’ll be in my room.” He jogs up the stairs and shuts the door behind himself without another word. He dumps his bag on the chair and flops onto his bed, facedown. There are so many things he should be doing, and he can’t motivate himself to do any of them. Everything feels like swimming upstream lately, like defeat is inevitable so why even bother? He’s fighting against inertia, and he’s losing, badly.

Minutes trickle by before there’s a knock on his door. “Stiles?” his dad says from outside.

“Yeah,” Stiles says in reply, staring at his ceiling.

“Are you . . . okay in there?”

Stiles sighs. Damn his father for being perceptive. And damn himself for not realizing that his father would know something was wrong because he hasn’t put on any music and he can’t hear him typing or moving around. “Yeah, Dad, I’m fine,” he says.

“Can I come in?”

“Just a sec.” Stiles hauls himself into a sitting position and drags a book out of his backpack, flipping it open so it’ll look like he was studying. “Yeah, okay.”

From the look on his father’s face when he comes in, it’s obvious that he doesn’t buy Stiles’ casual ‘of course I’m just doing my homework’ routine. He sits down on the edge of the bed. “Look, if you need anything . . .”

Like what, Stiles wonders, but he understands that this isn’t easy for his father to deal with, any more than it’s easy for him. So he just shakes his head and says, “No, I’m okay.”

Sheriff Stilinski laces and unlaces his fingers. “Okay. But I, uh, I just wanted to say, about the police van . . . don’t worry about it, okay? You don’t have to say anything about why you did it. If you don’t want to. This whole leave of absence . . . it’s just a temporary thing. They just have to put it on record that they looked into it.”

“Okay, Dad,” Stiles says, burying his nose in his history textbook.

Since the conversation is growing more awkward by the second, Sheriff Stilinski apparently decides to back out before it gets worse. He stands up and heads for the door.

“Oh, uh,” Stiles says, calling after him, “I’m going out tonight. It’s, uh. Lydia’s birthday.”

Sheriff Stilinski frowns. “Will you . . . be all right? At her party?”

“Yeah, sure, I was actually invited this time and everything,” Stiles says, and his father winces. “And Jackson won’t even be there, I don’t think, since he and Lydia broke up, so, you know, no worries about his restraining order or anything.”

“About that . . .” Stilinski says.

“Don’t,” Stiles says, and shakes his head, not looking up. “You were right. I don’t have proof. I shouldn’t have even said anything.”

“That’s not what . . .”

“Let it go, okay?” Stiles says, his voice short and abrupt. He rolls over so he doesn’t have to look at his dad. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” his father says. He’s quiet, uncertain, and Stiles _hates_ that, because he doesn’t think he’s ever heard him like that before. His father isn’t always _right_ , but he always at least knows what to do, or even when he doesn’t, he thinks he does. Except now. “Okay, I’ll just, uh, you have a good time. At the party.” He backs out of the room before things can get worse.

As soon as the door shuts, Stiles throws the textbook across the room. He has to take several deep breaths before he can calm down. He resolves to buy Lydia a _ridiculous_ birthday present.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

As parties go, it could be worse. Okay, there’s the hallucinogenic punch, awkward swimming pool accidents, drag queens, and murder lizards, but still, it’s not the worst party he’s ever attended. He’s pretty sure it’s going to be a long time before anything breaks _that_ record. He’s not even sure where Lydia _went_ ; he hasn’t seen her for the last hour and why was the punch hallucinogenic anyway? None of which particularly matters because Matt is the kanima’s master and –

“And that’s why you should _always listen to me_ ,” Stiles sums up as they race back towards his house in the Jeep, “because I am _always right_ , real talk.”

Scott scrubs both his hands through his hair and says, “But if Matt’s the one who fucked with Jackson’s tape, why did he then _point out_ that someone had fucked with the tape – ”

“Do I look like I understand the mind of an emotionally fucked up, possibly dead, stalker serial killer?” Stiles interrupts. “Because I really do not. Matt’s evil and we’ve gotta talk to my dad, end of story.”

It takes some time to get Sheriff Stilinski on board with the ‘Stiles is always right’ plan, and at one point he starts to say, “You want me to trust you?” but then his gaze skitters sideways as he thinks about what happened the previous night and doesn’t quite get the sentence out. Stiles hastily derails the conversation by suggesting that his father trust Scott, since Scott of course is the shining example of all that’s good and honest in the universe and certainly never got raped at a party.

Everything’s going just swimmingly until Matt shows up and starts killing people and somehow Stiles finds himself paralyzed on the floor with Derek while Jackson skulks around and his father is chained up somewhere and everything is terrible. Every time Jackson looks at him, he can feel the panic start to rise in his chest. Jackson isn’t himself right now, so Stiles supposes he _probably_ won’t do anything to him, but ‘probably’ isn’t particularly reassuring. Jackson could do _anything_ to him while he’s paralyzed and helpless. Only Derek’s presence in the room keeps Stiles from having a complete freak-out.

“That’s disgusting,” he says, as Derek digs his claws into his own thigh.

They lie there in silence for a while as Matt takes Scott on his little tour down memory lane. Derek can hear their conversation fairly clearly, and relays bits of it to Stiles as his claws flex and relax.

“So when he says he ‘died’, what he really means is ‘he had a nasty experience’,” Stiles says. “Okay. Gotcha. My sympathy meter is reading a little low, but hey, it’s been a rough night.” He tries to glance over at Derek, who just grunts in reply. The panic wells up again. “Can you – can you still hear my dad?”

“I _told_ you, Stiles, if anything happens to your dad, I’ll tell you,” Derek says. “He’s trying to pull the handcuffs out of the wall.”

That’s his dad, Stiles thinks, the panic momentarily replaced with pride. Sheriff or not, he’s not going to let some asshole teenager with a gun take over his police station. Jackson wanders over to check on them, every movement slow and reptilian, the scales on one side of his face rippling with the motion. Stiles swallows hard and tries not to look at him.

“Calm down,” Derek snarls at him. “Your panic is distracting me.”

“Fuck you, asshole,” Stiles replies. “None of this would have happened if you hadn’t thought it was a bright idea to give Jackson the bite. What the fuck were you thinking?”

Derek growls and replies, “I was thinking that I needed a pack and he was willing. We’re not supposed to turn people against their will, Peter never should have done that to Scott, so when I needed a pack, Jackson was a logical choice.”

Stiles thinks to himself that there’s a real rape metaphor here that just makes everything more ironic, and he starts to laugh, close to hysterics. “How’d that work out for you? Because from over here, it looks like it worked out like shit.”

“Thank you, Captain Hindsight,” Derek replies.

They lie there in silence for a while because really, what can either of them say?

“So is that hypothetical plan of yours becoming any less hypothetical?” Stiles finally asks.

“I can move my toes,” Derek replies.

“Dude, I can move my toes,” Stiles says, thinking that it’s going to be a long night.

But then of course everything goes to shit, there are people with guns and Stiles literally has no idea what’s going on. (He does have to admit a brief, fuzzy feeling about Derek telling Scott, “Take him! Go!” but pushes that aside to a point that he’ll have time to deal with it, like never.) A lot happens very quickly, mostly while he’s lying prone on the floor feeling powerless and terrified.

Somehow his father manages to get through the _entire incident_ without once seeing a werewolf, werelizard, or other such telltale details such as paralyzed teenagers. That seems to be the most supernatural thing of all, but Stiles takes it as a definite sign that his father is _not_ meant to know about the bizarre goings-on. Eventually other police officers show up, drawn by the gunfire, and ambulances, and by then Stiles is on his feet, shaky but mobile. They check his father for a concussion but decide he doesn’t have one. Stiles wants him to go to the hospital anyway, but his father vetoes him because Matt is still on the loose somewhere.

Scott’s taking his mom home and Derek vanished somewhere during the fighting. Jackson’s long gone, and Stiles’ father has left with several officers to try to track down Matt. Stiles is left sitting alone in a police station full of dead bodies, trying not to cry.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure of exactly how much time is supposed to have passed between 2.10 and 2.11. Enough for Peter to grow a goatee? But I'm going to assume that I can wedge at least a few days in there to accomplish some things.
> 
> This chapter should basically get every trigger warning available. Yep.

“Stiles, hey.” There’s a gentle knock on the door on Stiles’ bedroom, but his father pushes it open without waiting for a reply. He’s wearing his full uniform, the sheriff’s pin right back where it belongs, shining in the dim light. “You awake?” he asks, despite the fact that it’s past noon. “The . . . the funerals start in an hour.”

Stiles glances up from where he’s lying curled up on his bed. “Oh . . . yeah. I’ll be down in a few minutes. Is there coffee?”

“I drank the last mug. But we should have time to stop at Starbucks on the way, if you want.”

Starbucks is a special treat, and Stiles knows that his father is just trying to make him feel better about the awful day that’s sure to follow. And he desperately needs the caffeine, because he is awake, of course he’s awake, he’s barely slept since that night at the station, and now he’s got four funerals to sit through for the fallen officers.

He gets off the bed slowly, rubbing a hand over his face and trying to focus, trying to ward off the crushing feeling of inertia. He dresses in black slacks, a gray button-down shirt, and a black jacket. He doesn’t own a lot of nice clothes. His father glances up and gives him an awkward nod as he comes downstairs. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” he says.

“No, I do,” Stiles says. “I mean, as much as it’s possible to want to go to a funeral, I do.”

So they get in the car, and they stop by the Starbucks, and Sheriff Stilinski can’t help but roll his eyes a little as Stiles orders some ridiculous drink with caramel and extra espresso shots. He drinks it slowly as they drive to the cemetery. All the services are going to be graveside, to allow for the twenty-one gun salute.

He texts with Scott on the way. Scott’s upset because his mother won’t talk to him. Stiles tries to muster up the energy to care. He manages a few well-worn platitudes. Nobody’s heard from Derek since the night at the station. Allison’s not talking to any of them, either. Stiles has more sympathy for her – her mother just died, for Christ’s sake, and he knows how that feels – but he thinks that Scott is an idiot for not telling her _why_ her mother died. It’s his decision, and Stiles won’t make it for him, but he foresees that keeping the truth from Allison is only going to cause more trouble in the long-term.

Each funeral is torturous in its own way, from Kendra’s sobbing fiancée to James’ huddled collection of children, now orphans since his wife died of ovarian cancer last year, to Keith’s pregnant wife taking the folded flag with hands that shake, and Stanley’s mother accepting his since he had never married. Sheriff Stilinski says a few quiet words to each of the families while Stiles stands awkwardly by each grave, hating himself more for not being able to prevent this with every passing moment.

“I know what you’re thinking,” his father says, on the drive home, “but this wasn’t your fault.”

“I know,” Stiles says woodenly.

“And I’m really proud of you,” his father adds. “I mean . . . you solved the case. Yes, Matt committed a lot of violence the other day . . . but he probably would have gone on to kill even more people if you hadn’t stopped him. You saved a lot of people’s lives.”

“I guess,” Stiles replies. He shifts a little and says, “Any leads on how he turned up dead in Miller’s Pond?”

“Not yet,” his father says. “I have to admit . . . maybe I haven’t been looking into it as zealously as I could have been.”

Which makes sense. Stiles thinks that his father probably presumes whoever killed Matt was one of the other victims’ relatives, trying to get revenge, which would make such an action understandable. Personally, he has no idea who killed Matt, or why. Like his father, he’s not sure he cares, although it’s for very different reasons. For his father, it’s the four funerals they just went to. For Stiles, it’s that creeping indifference to everything, the pull of inevitability that numbs him every time he tries to come up with a plan. It’s just as paralyzing as the kanima’s venom, in its own way.

They go home and it’s late now, almost seven PM, and neither of them have really eaten. Sheriff Stilinski suggests ordering pizza and waits for Stiles’ outraged comments about his cholesterol. All he gets is, “I’m not really hungry . . . just order for yourself. I think I’m going to take a shower and turn in early.”

For a moment, it seems like his father might protest, or suggest that this isn’t healthy. But then he just says, “Okay. You . . . you get some rest.”

Stiles trudges up the stairs. He takes an inordinately long time in the shower, hoping he’ll be tired when he comes out. He isn’t, not really, but he crawls into bed anyway. He tries not to think about what’s been happening, but it’s obviously a lost cause. He tosses and turns for hours, occasionally sitting up and trying to distract himself by reading for a little while, which never gets him very far.

Around midnight, he decides to get up for a little while, maybe make himself some tea. He goes downstairs and sees that his father is still up. He’s sitting at the kitchen table in his pajamas, so obviously he tried to go to sleep at some point, but much like Stiles, eventually gave up. He gives Stiles a weary greeting as he comes into the kitchen and fills a mug with water.

Neither of them talk while he busies himself making the tea. His father, he’s relieved to see, is not drinking whiskey. He has a mug of warm milk, which he swears by but Stiles can’t stand. He’s sitting there with the newspaper’s word jumble, although it doesn’t look like he was having much luck with it.

When his tea is done, Stiles drags a chair over and puts it behind his father, so they can sit back to back and they won’t have to look at each other. Then he plops down in it, blowing on the top of the tea to cool it down. They sit in silence for a long minute. “So . . . last winter, I went to Lydia’s annual post-Christmas bash. I wasn’t invited. But, you know, that didn’t matter to me. I told myself it was just an oversight. Obviously she _meant_ to invite me. We’d known each other since third grade, right?”

“Stiles . . .” Sheriff Stilinski sounds deeply uncomfortable. “You don’t have to . . .”

“No, I do,” Stiles says. “I do have to. Okay?”

“Yeah,” his father says quietly. “Okay.”

“Nobody there really wanted me there, so I wasn’t really having a good time, so I had a few drinks to, you know, loosen up. I barely even saw Lydia. She was always surrounded by a throng of admirers. I went to tell her merry Christmas and she asked me who I was. So, you know. Typical Lydia Martin. I told her I was the one who had gotten her the DVDs of Shark Week because I knew she liked sharks and she likes science and stuff. That surprised her a little. That I had noticed, or remembered. But there were so many people there, she just got distracted talking to them, I guess.

“But like an hour later, some girl I didn’t really know told me Lydia wanted to talk to me, that she was waiting upstairs. I was so excited. I thought maybe she had put together that there was always this one guy who actually paid attention, who got her something besides make-up or shoes. Maybe she wanted to thank me or something. Of course, that’s not what it was. Jackson had the girl send me up there.

“First he just slapped me around some, and, you know, told me to stay away from his girl.” Stiles wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “You know, said that he had noticed and he wasn’t going to let me get away with it. But then he . . . said he was going to teach me a lesson. So I would know what it was like to be the one trying to say no. He pushed me down on the bed. Pushed my face into the pillows so I couldn’t scream.”

“Jesus,” Sheriff Stilinski mutters. Stiles can feel him shaking. “Jesus, Stiles, you don’t . . .”

Stiles keeps talking as if his father hadn’t said anything. “I tried to get away but he was just so much stronger than I was. I mean, with lacrosse, and swimming . . . he held me down like it was _nothing_. He pulled my pants off and he . . .” For the first time, Stiles’ voice hitches. “He told me not to think he was enjoying it. That’s what he said while he raped me. That he was only doing it so I would stay away from Lydia. That I should stay away from everyone, that I should just go kill myself after this.

“He left me there when he was done. I just . . . got up and went home. I didn’t say anything to anyone. I knew that no one would believe me. I mean, Jackson’s not gay, he’s not into guys, he’s got the best girlfriend, why would he . . . so I just didn’t say anything. I thought I might have to for a few days, because . . . the bleeding wouldn’t stop. But eventually it did. So I just pretended everything was normal.” Stiles puts the tea aside and pulls his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. “I didn’t tell Scott or anybody. And when school started again, I just tried to stay away from him.

“But then Scott started dating Allison, and Allison made friends with Lydia, and somehow we kept ending up thrown together. I thought I was going to go nuts, but just when I thought I should tell someone, I got this . . . photograph. In my e-mail. Of me. At the party.” His voice hitches again, and he can hear his father’s sharp intake of breath. “I thought about, like, that girl in Steubenville and the one in Canada and I thought . . . if I say anything, Jackson’s going to post these photos all over the internet, he’ll send them to everyone at school, and so even if I can prove he did it, my life will still be ruined. So I just kept my mouth shut. And then I had the idea about the police transport van. About how maybe I could get him alone and make him delete the photos or something. It was a stupid idea, I know, but I just didn’t know what else to do and I – ”

“Jesus, Stiles.” Sheriff Stilinski can’t handle it anymore. He turns in his chair and grabs Stiles around the shoulders, hugging him tightly. The back of the chair jams into Stiles’ chest and it’s incredibly uncomfortable, but he doesn’t fight back. “Jesus Christ, I can’t . . .”

Stiles clings to his father, grasping at what’s left of his self-control with the tips of his fingers. He swallows the lump in his throat and buries his face in his father’s shoulder. “I don’t know what to do and I’m so scared.” The words just leave him in a flood before he can stop them. “I don’t want anyone to know, I can’t, can’t say anything, the way they’ll _look_ at me, I can’t, Daddy, I can’t, please don’t make me say anything to anyone, please don’t make me.”

His father just holds him, and Stiles can hear him crying, feel it in the way his shoulders are shaking. But he embraces him no less tightly, one hand clutching at the back of Stiles’ T-shirt, awkwardly rocking him back and forth as Stiles sobs into his shirt. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he says, over and over again. “We’ll handle this, okay? I’m here, I’ll _always_ be here for you . . .”

It takes a long time, but gradually, the worst of the hysterics pass. Stiles pulls away and wipes impatiently at his eyes, trembling. His father gets up and hands him his tea, which is cool enough to drink by now. Stiles tries to choke some of it down, but his throat is tight and aching.

“Okay.” Sheriff Stilinski takes a deep breath and turns the chairs so they’re facing again. “Okay. First things first. You have _nothing_ to be ashamed of. Okay?” He takes Stiles’ chin in his hand and tries to force Stiles to meet his eyes, but Stiles won’t. “I know it doesn’t feel that way, but this was _not_ your fault, and the fact that you were flirting with Lydia does _not_ mean you deserved this. Okay?”

Stiles manages a nod and murmurs, “Yeah, okay.”

It’s obvious that he doesn’t believe it, but his father lets that go. “Two. I’m glad you told me. I know that . . . this isn’t something that’s easy to deal with, for anyone, and I understand why you _didn’t_ tell me for a long time, and I’m not mad at you for that. But I’m glad I know. I can help you now. Okay?”

Another nod, another murmured agreement.

“Three. We . . . we can handle this however you want to, and I will support you one hundred percent. If you don’t want to say anything or press charges, okay, we can go that route. If you do, I will – ” His voice chokes a little. “I will fight through whatever we have to, to see justice done.”

Stiles rests his forehead in the crook of his father’s shoulder. “Okay. Is it . . . is it okay if I don’t know what I want to do yet?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” His father rubs his back in a circular motion. “I know it’s hard. But we’ll talk it through, we’ll make a decision together. Okay? And I promise, whatever you decide is okay. I won’t lose respect for you. This is . . .” His voice chokes a little, but he manages to steady it. “You’ve been so brave, to keep going after all of that. I’m really proud of you.”

Stiles just leans against him, letting his father take his weight. For a minute he wants to tell his father everything, all about werewolves and kanimas and how everything in his life has just gone to the dogs, but he doesn’t. It’s late, they’re both tired, it’s too much to get into. And he doesn’t think he could handle it if his father doesn’t believe him.

“C’mon, kid. I think you need to get some sleep before we go making any decisions.” Sheriff Stilinski stands up, helping Stiles stand with him. He ushers him up the stairs and back into bed, even tucking him in. “Come get me if you need me. Okay? Do you promise?”

“Yeah, I promise,” Stiles says. His father kisses him on the forehead and leaves the room. Stiles closes his eyes and drifts into an exhausted sleep.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

One of the many good things about Matt being dead is that it means that the kanima has no master. Stiles has researched everywhere he can to see if he can find a way to exploit that fact. It’s been a good way to distract himself. The problem is that he really can’t find anything about how the kanima chooses a master.

“It seems to be almost like the way a bird imprints,” he tells Scott over sandwiches at lunch. Scott is staring longingly at the seat Allison normally occupies. “Hey!” Stiles snaps his fingers in front of Scott’s face. “Pay attention. The kanima seems to imprint like a bird, so it attaches to the first person it sees, right?”

“So, we just have to get to Jackson first?” Scott asks, frowning. “But we’ve seen him since that night at the station.”

“We’ve seen Jackson, but we haven’t seen the kanima,” Stiles says. “Maybe we should stake out his house and wait to see if he shifts. But the moon’s waning now. And I don’t know if the kanima is controlled by the moon’s phases or not, the way a wolf would be.” He rubs a hand through his hair. “And I don’t think it can imprint on just anybody. It has to be somebody like minded.”

“Someone who’s got murder on the brain,” Scott surmises.

“Right,” Stiles says.

They both look at Allison’s empty seat.

“Okay, look, I need you to try to stick close to Allison,” Stiles says. “I know that she doesn’t want anything to do with us right now, but just . . . keep an eye on her. I’m going to have a crack at Jackson.” Because that’s what he wants to do. Spend more time with Jackson. But he’s feeling pretty murderous right now, even if there’s no one he specifically has in mind to murder (besides Jackson himself, which he figures won’t get him very far with the kanima).

Of course, he’s not supposed to be anywhere near Jackson right now, and if he hears the words ‘restraining order’ one more time, he might flip his shit. He has to twist some serious arms and even drop a bribe or two to get Jackson in the locker room by himself. “Look, we need to talk.”

“I have a rest – ”

“Oh my God, I’m the one who should have a restraining order against you, numbnuts, just drop it,” Stiles says. “This is serious, okay? People are _dying_.”

“Right, right,” Jackson says, “I’m a murder machine. I forgot.”

“Stop trying to pretend this isn’t happening,” Stiles snaps at him. “Stop pretending you don’t _know_ we’re right. How’d you get out of the police van?”

“What?” Jackson asks, and sneers at him. “You must not have done the handcuffs right.”

“But you don’t _know_ that, right?” Stiles presses. “Because you don’t actually remember _doing_ it. Just like you don’t remember where you were the night Matt killed all the police officers. Or a ton of other nights. There are huge gaps in your memory, and you can try to pretend that there aren’t, but there _are_. For Christ’s sake, Jackson, we can help you, but you have to – ”

“I’m supposed to believe that you want to help me?” Jackson asks. “You?”

“No, chucklefuck, I want to remove your balls with a rusty spork,” Stiles says, “but I’m not the one in charge of this operation. For some strange reason, Scott and Allison don’t want you dead, so they’ve overruled me.” He sees Jackson hesitate and presses the point. “Jackson, you _can’t_ do this on your own. You can’t _control_ this. You have to let us help you.”

Jackson leans in close, and Stiles involuntarily scrambles back despite the fact that every conscious thought in his body says to hold his ground. “You can stay the hell away from me,” Jackson says, and pushes past him and out of the room.

“Fuck,” Stiles snarls. He wonders again why they’re even bothering. But he camps out outside the Whittemore house that night all the same. His father will be at work. They’re stretched thin until some new officers are hired, and since Beacon Hills seems to be their version of Sunnydale, he doesn’t know who in their right mind will be taking that job.

He and his father still haven’t talked about what they’re going to do, but as far as Stiles is concerned, there’s nothing to talk about. He’s not proud of himself for it, but the idea of coming forth makes him sick. He can’t do it, not even to save his father’s career, no matter how much he thought he could. Having told his father, knowing that his father doesn’t hate him or blame him, will have to be enough.

It’s a long night outside the Whittemore house, drinking Red Bull and black coffee to stay awake, but when Jackson leaves around dawn, it’s in his fully human form. Stiles decides to head home and take a quick shower before he heads to school. A part of him wonders why Jackson is leaving so early, but he really can’t bring himself to care.

A hot shower revives him a little. It’s still early, so he makes some breakfast and decides to take some food down to the station for his father. He makes an egg white omelet with spinach and broccoli, but then takes pity on his father and adds in just enough to cheese to make it edible without being unhealthy. Then he slides it into a Tupperware. His father greets him wearily, thanks him for the food, and says he’ll probably be home in the evening, so Stiles heads to school.

As soon as he walks in the front door of the building, he knows something’s wrong. Everyone, _everyone_ , turns to stare at him. There are some whispers, some murmurs, and his stomach lurches to one side. He knows what’s happened even before he gets to the bulletin board just inside the door, next to the glass case that houses all the trophies nobody cares about anymore. It’s used for announcements, mainly, but now it’s covered with photographs. Photographs of him, that night at Lydia’s party. Jackson’s face is cut out of each one, but what’s happening could not be more obvious.

He looks down the hallway and sees that they’re _everywhere_. They’re taped to every door, plastered on every wall. There’s no getting away from them.

Everything seems to slow to a crawl. He just stands there and stares at the photographs, reliving every single moment presented in them, his entire body trembling while the crowd mills around him, gawking and whispering.

After what could be a minute or could be an hour, he realizes that Scott has come up on one side of him. Allison is next to him. Both of them are staring at the photos in a mixture of shock and horror. Scott recovers first, looking at him and saying, “S-Stiles?”

“It really loses something without the audio, I think,” Stiles hears himself say, his voice coming from another planet, some part of his brain that’s somehow still functional. “I mean, you can’t really experience it just from the visuals.”

“Jesus, Stiles,” Scott says, his voice shaking. He reaches out and starts to rip the photos down. Stiles lets him. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about _anything_.

“Scott, they’re everywhere,” Allison says in a hushed voice. Apparently the horror of this has drawn her out of the stupor her mother’s death left her in. “That won’t – won’t make a difference.”

“I can’t just _leave_ them,” Scott protests, dropping a clump of shredded paper on the ground.

Stiles shakes his head and starts walking down the hallway.

“Wait – where – where are you going?” Scott jogs after him. Allison’s on his heels.

“I’m going to go empty my locker,” Stiles says, “and then I’m going home. Because it’s pretty obvious that I won’t be finishing the school year here.”

“Oh,” Scott says. “Yeah, uh, I guess – ”

“You should probably call my dad before you take any more of those down,” Stiles adds. “I’m pretty sure that hanging them up was a felony. And it won’t matter if you take them down, anyway. I saw lots of kids taking pictures of them, so, what’s done is done.” He reaches his locker. There’s one taped right at eye level. The worst one, the one right in the middle, where it’s obvious that he’s trying to scream but someone’s hand is over his mouth.

“Stiles, you can’t – ” Scott grabs him by the arm and twists him around with supernatural strength, and Stiles is shocked to see that he’s half-shifted, right there in the hallway, fangs out, eyes gold, fury written on every inch of his face. “Tell me who did this. _Tell me_.”

Stiles tries to shake him off, but can’t. “Scott, calm down,” he says.

“How can you tell me to _calm down_ ,” Scott snarls. It’s not a question. “Tell me who did this.”

“It was Jackson, wasn’t it,” Allison whispers. “That’s why you kept trying to convince us to kill him.”

Stiles flinches despite himself. Scott shifts another inch.

“Okay,” Allison says, and lets out a breath. Her tone returns to normal. “Okay,” she says, and turns and walks away. “Grandpa and I will take care of it,” she says, over her shoulder.

Stiles rubs a hand over his face and starts taking things out of his locker. Scott is still struggling for control. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Would you have told me?” Stiles asks, and gestures to the photos. “If this had happened to you?”

There’s a pause. Then Scott shakes his head, his features fading back towards human. “I don’t know.”

Stiles finishes emptying his locker. “I’m going home, Scott. Just . . . call my dad. Tell him I said that I was okay. He won’t believe me, but . . . I just need to get out of here. I won’t do anything stupid. I promise.”

“I could go with you,” Scott says.

“Dude, you’re already failing half your classes. Besides, I don’t really want the company.” Stiles slams the locker shut. “I’ll see you later,” he says, and walks away without another word.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, getting through the events of episodes 2.11 and 2.12 here. I don't want to put a lot of focus on what I didn't change, since nobody would really find it interesting to read a scene that they've already seen happen, so forgive me for skimming a little. Don't worry, there will be plenty after that to appease you. ^_^
> 
> To fans of Scott: I love Scott. I really do. But the stunt he pulled in episode 2.12 ... was uncool. Don't worry, though, there won't be a lot of Scott-bashing.

 

Stiles has been home less than an hour when he hears his father’s car in the driveway and then the slamming of the door. He glances over from the sofa but doesn’t move as Sheriff Stilinski rushes into the house. When he sees Stiles, sitting on the couch with an Xbox controller in his hand, his expression transforms into one of profound relief. “You’re okay,” he says.

“’m better’n okay,” Stiles says. He tosses the controller aside and hauls himself off the sofa to reassure his father, stumbling towards him and nearly falling over.

His father catches him before he can walk into the table. “You’re drunk,” he says.

“No’m not,” Stiles says. “’m _way_ b’yond drunk. ‘m fuckin’ _plastered_.”

Stilinski sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “I guess I can’t really . . . come on, let’s get you sitting down.” He ushers Stiles back over to the sofa, picking up the remote to the television so he can turn off the glorious violence that Stiles has been participating in. He just sits there for a minute while Stiles leans against him, one hand rubbing absently at the back of his neck. “Do you want to know what happened at school?”

“Sure,” Stiles slurs out. “Tell me all ‘bout it.”

“Well, after Scott called me, he went down to the principal’s office. I guess there are security cameras in the school and Scott wanted to get the footage before it went mysteriously absent. Meanwhile, Allison and Lydia went around taking all the pictures down.”

“Shit. Lydia. _Lydia_.” Stiles can’t even think of what to say after that. The idea of Lydia having seen those photographs was somehow worse than anything else.

“Yeah, she recognized that it was her house,” his father says wearily. “She was upset, but Allison talked her out of calling you or coming over. And apparently kept her distracted enough while taking the pictures down that she didn’t look at any of them long enough to recognize Jackson. I think she thought that would just make things worse.”

Stiles feels a strong love for Allison right now. He’s even willing to forgive her for all the craziness she’s been indulging in lately. And hey, if she and Gerard really do just kill the kanima, that’s at least one of his problems solved. Although he wouldn’t have minded if they had done it a bit sooner. “Mmkay. How’s m’boy?”

Stilinski sighs. “Scott is . . . upset. Really upset. I think he understands why you didn’t tell him, but I guess you told him it was Jackson? Or he figured it out. Jackson wasn’t in school today, which was pretty smart of him, because otherwise I think Scott would have picked up a desk chair and beaten him to death. And honest to God, I don’t think I would have stopped him.”

Stiles leans against his father more heavily and says, “Yeah you would’ve. You’re all like . . . a lawman an’ stuff.”

“You’re my _son_ ,” the sheriff says heatedly. “No, Stiles, I wouldn’t have stopped him. I might have helped.”

There isn’t much Stiles can say to that, so he says, “What ‘bout the cam’ras ‘n stuff?”

Stilinski sighs and rubs a hand through his hair. “Unfortunately, Jackson was smart enough to wear a ski mask and gloves while he hung up the photographs, so we really don’t have any evidence that it was him. There are plenty of kids in town who own printers that could print photographs. Now, I could get a warrant on your word, search his computer and phone.”

“No,” Stiles says. “He’ll have deleted them.”

“He’ll have a backup somewhere.”

“No,” Stiles repeats.

His father’s fists slowly clench and unclench. “Stiles, you didn’t want to say anything because you didn’t want people to know, well, now people know. If we can’t stop that, don’t you think Jackson should pay for what he’s done?”

“ _No_ ,” Stiles chokes out. “It can get worse. It can _always_ get worse. I can’t – I _can’t_.” He buries his face in his father’s shoulder, shuddering. “I can’t and I won’t.”

“Okay,” Stilinski says quietly, rubbing his back. “Okay.”

Stiles swallows hard, but feels the bile rising. “Think ‘m gonna be sick,” he says, so his father gets him to his feet and helps him into the bathroom. He winds up on his knees for several minutes, puking up everything he ate for breakfast along with the generous amounts of alcohol he’s imbibed. His father sits with him and helps him sip some water.

“I’m going to go back to the school for a little while,” Sheriff Stilinski finally says, when Stiles is feeling better. “I want to talk to the administration about letting the students know that possessing those photos is a crime and sending them to anyone else is an even worse crime. Hopefully, most of them will delete them from their phones.”

“It’ll never go away,” Stiles murmurs. “Not really.” His eyes go suddenly wide. “Oh shit, I need to go – ” He fumbles for his laptop.

His father has to help him get it out of its bag and onto the coffee table. “What are you – ” he says, but then sees Stiles pull up his Facebook page. Before Stilinski can really process it, Stiles just lets out a little moan and slumps sideways on the sofa.

“Too late,” he mumbles. “Too late.”

The sheriff’s jaw is set in a grim expression as he scrolls down the list of posts on Stiles’ wall, various critiques of his ‘performance’, derogatory comments, and requests to know who ‘the lucky guy’ was and when the wedding will be. Then he quietly shuts the laptop. “I’m taking this with me,” he says.

“Delete it,” Stiles says. “When you’re done with it. Just – delete my entire damned account.”

“Okay,” Stilinski says. “Promise me you won’t use your phone to go looking at what people have said.”

Stiles nods and slumps over. “I promise.”

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay by yourself?” his father asks, hesitating.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Just gonna go run some innocent pedestrians over.” He sees his father frown and tries to smile. “The video game, Dad.”

“Oh. Right.” Stilinski squeezes his shoulder and then leaves the house.

Stiles tosses the remote aside, drags a blanket over his face, and wishes he was anywhere else in the world.

He’s not sure how long he lies there, but it has to be hours, and he thinks maybe he dozes off. Given that he had spent the entire night sitting outside Jackson’s house, it’s not really surprising. He thinks vaguely that he should have just run him over with the Jeep as soon as he had left that morning. That would have solved a lot of problems. And even if it hadn’t solved anything, it still would have been deeply satisfying.

He jolts back awake, feeling hungry and mostly sober, when there’s a banging at the door. Then it opens. “Stiles? Are you home?”

It’s Scott’s voice, so Stiles hauls himself up off the sofa. “Yeah. ‘Sup,” he says, trying to be casual.

Scott’s face is grim. “Look, uh – there’s obviously some heavy shit we should talk about, but in the meantime we’ve got a problem.”

“Of course we do,” Stiles says, and sighs. “Hang on. I need coffee.”

As it turns out, it seems unlikely that Gerard will be helping kill Jackson, since he’s taken control of the kanima. Scott says he called Allison and tried to talk to her about it, but she accused him of being a liar and then hung up on him. Gerard has given Scott an ultimatum – help him find Derek, or he’ll use the kanima to kill someone at the lacrosse game.

Stiles sips his coffee, thinks about how it can always get worse, and wonders why he just doesn’t give a shit.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

It’s a greatly reluctant Stiles who allows himself to be dragged to the lacrosse game. He would really much prefer to stay in his bedroom and lick his wounds. But Scott makes the excellent point that if Gerard is going to make trouble, he might need the backup. Since Allison can’t be trusted, it’s Stiles and Scott against the world.

So he goes, but he doesn’t play, because the school has a rule that you have to attend school the day of a game in order to play in it, and he’s not about to show his face in actual classes. In fact, he thinks about whether or not it would be possible to get plastic surgery before the game. Or if people would freak out if he wore a ski mask.

In the long run, he settles for ‘lurking by the back of the stands and hoping nobody notices me’, a strategy that works fairly well until all the lights go out, there’s general screaming and terror, and he finds himself in a headlock being dragged away from the stands. Somehow he winds up in the back of an SUV, wrestling with some guy in a leather jacket who grabs him every time he reaches for the door handle and tries to jump out. All of which culminates in him in the Argent’s basement getting his ass handed to him by someone four times his age. It’s really not going on his list of best days ever.

He’s not even sure _why_ Gerard is kicking his ass. To send a message to Scott, who’s already basically agreed to work with him, or to get information, which there would surely be easier ways to get, or possibly just because he’s a geriatric psychopath, which honestly seems to be the best explanation. Stiles winds up lying on the cement floor with blood in his mouth and pain in every inch of his body.

He gets a quick glance over his shoulder at Erica and Boyd as leather-jacket-guy drags him back up the stairs and to the SUV. “Wait, so, you’re just letting me go?” he shouts at Gerard, but Gerard has already left. He presumably has important murdering to do. So the asshole in the SUV drives him back home, and he climbs the stairs to find his dad saying worried things into his phone. “I’m right here,” he says, half-lifting his hand in greeting.

Sheriff Stilinski gets one look at his face and promptly flips his shit, demanding to know what happened. Stiles tries to fend him off, saying, “It’s okay, it’s just, a guy said a nasty comment about the photos and I tried to hit him so he smacked me around a bit.”

“Who was it? I want his name, God damn it, I’m going to go down to the school and pistol whip the little bastard – ”

“Dad!” Stiles shouts. “I said I’m okay.”

His father studies him for a moment before drawing him into a crushing embrace. Stiles hugs back just as hard.

When he pulls away, Sheriff Stilinski says, “Wait, then – when did you leave the game?”

“I don’t know, maybe a little after half time,” Stiles says, hedging because he’s not sure where his father is going with this. “Why?”

“Then you don’t know,” his father says.

“Jesus, don’t know _what_?” Stiles asks, wishing he had thought to call Scott before going back into his house to see what had happened in the chaos.

Sheriff Stilinski steers him into a chair, which doesn’t go a long way towards making him feel better. “The lights went out – a fuse must have blown or something. There was basically a riot, and in the confusion . . . Jackson was hurt. Bad. The paramedics came, but he didn’t have a pulse when they took him off the field.”

Stiles is now intensely glad that his father had made him sit down, because he feels dizzy, light-headed, with this news. His emotional side struggles to get a grasp on it while his rational side starts trying to figure out why in the hell Gerard would have had the kanima hurt itself rather than one of the hundreds of innocent bystanders. There had to be a reason, but he’s at a complete loss as to what it might be.

“I . . . I have to shower,” he says, and gets up and walks out of the room. For a minute it looks like his father might argue, but then he decides to let Stiles have some time to himself to cope with the bombshell he just dropped.

Stiles locks himself in the bathroom and takes out his phone. He calls Scott, but gets his voice mail. After a few moments to think, he just leaves a message that says, “Call me if you need me.” He has no idea what Scott is up to or even where he is, so he’ll just have to handle himself. There’s a long moment while he just sits and thinks about things. Then he dials Derek.

The alpha picks up brusquely. “What?”

“Hey,” Stiles says. “Gerard has Erica and Boyd. They’re chained up in his basement. There’s some kind of electrical equipment keeping them from shifting.”

There’s a pause. “Okay,” Derek says. “I have to handle the kanima. I’ll deal with it as soon as I can.”

“The kanima.” Stiles chokes the words out. “It’s still alive?”

“Yeah. Some kind of metamorphosis is going on.”

Stiles rests his forehead on one hand. “Well . . . have a blast, I guess. I’ll just, uh, wait at my house in case someone needs me.”

For a moment he thinks Derek is going to hang up without saying anything else. But then he just says, “Thanks.” And the line goes dead. Stiles rubs a hand over his face and leaves the bathroom without bothering to actually shower. He goes back into his bedroom and just flops down on his bed. He’s sure there are a hundred things he should be doing, a thousand ways that he could help. But that inertia is dragging him down again, that certainty that nothing he does will help. He just can’t bring himself to care. All this mad scrambling is for what purpose? To save Jackson? He literally could not care less about whether or not Jackson is saved. Scott’s on his own with that one. His phone goes off, but he ignores it.

Some time later, there’s a knock on the door. “Dad, I said I’m fine,” he says, but the knock sounds again. He sighs and hauls himself up off the bed. “How many times do I have to – ” he begins, but it’s not his father at the door, it’s Lydia.

Stiles’ gaze immediately skitters away from her as if he’s been burned. Lydia doesn’t look much more sure of herself. “Hi,” she offers.

“Hi,” he says.

“Your, uh, your dad let me in,” she adds.

Stiles makes a mental note to have a stern talk with his father about this at his nearest convenience, but he stands back to let Lydia into his room. Because she’s upset, and she’s Lydia, and no matter what else is going on, he still cares about her. And her boyfriend, well, ex-boyfriend, just died, or sort of died, and she has every right to be upset.

“You have seventeen missed messages from Scott,” she informs him.

“Yeah,” he says, because he really couldn’t care less about what Scott’s doing right now. He should. He knows he should. There are people in danger, people he cares about. But he just doesn’t.

And Lydia wants to go to Jackson, she wants to help him, because of course she does. Stiles loses his temper and shouts at her, and now her feelings are hurt and he feels like a piece of shit. Because Lydia was never going to love him. And maybe he was never going to love her, not really, not to _be_ in love with her the way he should be. So when she leaves, he just sits there.

A few minutes later, his father is standing in the doorway. “Sorry, she just . . . she seemed upset. I figured whether I let her in or sent her away, you’d be unhappy, so I made my own call.”

“Yeah, I . . . it’s okay,” Stiles says. “You know, her boyfriend just died, probably, and _she_ doesn’t know that he’s the scum of the earth. Was. Whatever.” He pushes a hand through his hair. “C’mon, Dad, I really don’t want company right now.”

His father lifts his hands in surrender, but says, “Look, kid, I know that I can’t even imagine what you’re going through. I just wanted to say . . . I think it was really brave of you to go to the game tonight, after what happened at school. I’m really proud of you. It may not seem like much to you, but I think it makes you a hero.”

Stiles’ gaze slides to the side and he thinks of Gerard, and Erica and Boyd chained up in his basement, and the photograph on his locker, and Lydia’s face as she turned away from him, and all the times over the past six months he’s watched his friends get hurt. “I’m not a hero, dad.”

“Tonight you were.” Sheriff Stilinski squeezes his shoulder and says, “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

“I’m not a hero,” Stiles mumbles after him, but the inertia is lifting, that crushing weight on his shoulders is getting lighter, just light enough that he thinks he can carry it. He sighs and picks up his shoes. He’s got messages from Scott he needs to read, and a redhead to pick up so she can go save her asshole, lizard monster, rapist ex-boyfriend.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Things get pretty chaotic for a little while after that. In the aftermath, they’re left standing around in the warehouse, many of them still trying to figure out what the fuck had just happened. Allison’s upset, although she’s keeping it together, and of course Scott is worried about her, and so is Chris, so the three of them wind up going back to the Argent’s house. Jackson and Lydia are going to hug it out, it seems, and Jackson looks so terrified at having been killed several times in one evening that Stiles _almost_ feels a little bad for him. Almost. But not quite.

Derek is giving Isaac sympathetic shoulder squeezes because getting stabbed by Chinese ring daggers sucks, Peter has melted back into the shadows whence he came, Gerard has crawled away in a pool of black goo, and Stiles finds that he really just doesn’t care about any of it. As always, Jackson got exactly what he wanted. It might not have worked out perfectly, but he’s a werewolf now, he’s got Lydia, everything’s coming up Whittemore. Stiles is so disgusted that he wants to puke.

“I’m going home,” he announces loudly, then mutters underneath his breath, “not that anyone cares.”

He heads back to his trusty Jeep, which is a little dented but withstood the lizard onslaught fairly well. He gets behind the wheel and drives home. Everyone else can just find their own way home. His dad glances up when he comes in through the front. “How’d it go?” he asks.

Stiles pushes a hand through his hair and says tonelessly, “Okay. Jackson’s gonna make it. They got him resuscitated at the hospital.”

“Oh.” Sheriff Stilinski ponders this for a moment. “How are you feeling?”

Stiles has to think about that for a long minute. “Like I want to eat chocolate pudding and watch Disney movies until I pass out.”

A slight smile touches his father’s face. “Well, I think that can be arranged.”

There’s a six-pack of chocolate pudding cups in the refrigerator. He and his father split them while they watch Finding Nemo. Stiles falls asleep on the couch and his father tucks a blanket around his shoulders.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

There’s one thing that Jackson’s _not_ going to get, Stiles decides. He’s not going to get the satisfaction of forcing Stiles out of school and into hiding. Stiles gets up on the Monday after the lacrosse game, showers, dresses, and goes to school. He doesn’t give a shit what anyone else thinks about it. If he can handle his own rape, they can damned well handle it, too.

He’s standing at his locker, loading his things back into it, listening to the whispers and giggles around them. For the most part, he’s able to ignore them. His breathing is a little shallow, hands a little shaky, but he tries to convince himself that he’s not on the verge of a panic attack. He can handle this. He _will_ handle this.

Right up until someone grabs his ass and says, “save any of that for me?” and he spins around, nearly falling. An angry protest boils up in his throat, but he shuts it down. What can he possibly say to that?

Nothing. So nothing is what he says. But he’s surprised when the jerk is promptly grabbed by the collar and shoved up against his own locker by an unexpected knight in green T-shirt. “Dude, _not okay_ ,” Danny says. “What the fuck is wrong with you, asshole?” He lets the guy go, but then turns to Stiles. “You all right?” he asks.

“Peachy,” Stiles strangles out, and bolts for the bathroom, just dropping all his things and making a run for it.

He winds up having his panic attack in the stall while Danny sits next to him, making him put his head between his knees and talking him through some deep breaths. He wonders what Danny would do or say if he realized that it’s own best friend who’s putting Stiles through this. He can’t even imagine.

Jackson isn’t in school again, and this time neither is Lydia. That’s fine by Stiles. He sits at his usual table at lunch with Scott. Allison’s in school, but she’s avoiding the cafeteria, so it’s just the two of them. Scott is quiet, picking at his food, and when Stiles asks if he’s okay, he says he is. Allison broke up with him, he says, but he knows that it’ll be okay and they’ll make it through this. Stiles tries to look happy for him.

“So this whole time, you were planning to have Derek give Gerard the bite,” he finally says, turning his can of soda around in his hands.

“Yeah. Pretty clever, huh?”

“I guess,” Stiles says, “but it was kind of an asshole thing to do. Why didn’t you tell Derek what you were up to?”

Scott’s face gets that confused, angry look that he gets whenever Derek comes up. “He didn’t need to know. And he’s not my alpha.”

Stiles sets down the soda. “You do realize that forcing him to do that was a dick move, right?”

Scott’s brow furrows. “Why? It all worked out.”

Stiles sighs. “Okay. Maybe I’m a little sensitive to general lack of bodily autonomy these days, but you literally used his body to do something that he didn’t want to do. I’m not saying it’s on par to what . . . happened to me, or the fact that Peter turned you without consent, but it was still a dick move. And if there had been some actual _reason_ to keep it from him, that would be one thing, but you kept him out of the loop just because you didn’t feel like including him.”

“It’s not like he always tells us all of his plans,” Scott says, clearly annoyed.

“Uh, except that he actually kind of did this time,” Stiles says. “Look, we didn’t _like_ the fact that he was going to kill Lydia because he thought she was the kanima. But he made it pretty fucking clear that he was going to do it. He didn’t tell us he was going to build a pack, but he didn’t hide it from us, either. He worked with us at the rave, at the police station. But you were in the background coming up with this plan and not telling anyone about it. It was a shit thing to do, that’s all.”

“Okay, maybe you _are_ oversensitive,” Scott suggests.

Stiles decides that he’s five hundred percent done with Scott McCall for the day. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s gotta be it.” He flips his soda can into the trash. “I’m going home.”

“Now? There’s still three more periods – ”

“Yeah, but there’s an assembly last period that I’m not interested in,” Stiles says. “Specifically, the ‘let’s gather all the kiddies and tell them about sexting laws in explicit detail so they know that possessing naked pictures of another teenager is a crime’ assembly. I plan on being in a different galaxy by the time that shit goes down.”

“Oh,” Scott says. “Okay. I’ll see you later, I guess.”

“Sure,” Stiles says, although he’s pissed enough that he really has no interest in seeing Scott for a while. He texts his father to let him know that he’s leaving school a little early, so he won’t worry if the school calls him.

He’s halfway home when he changes his mind about his destination. What’s he going to do at home, sit around and eat more pudding? After a few minutes to think, sitting at a stop sign, he dials Derek.

“What?” Derek asks, which is how he always picks up.

“Hey,” Stiles says. “Can we talk? In person?”

“Why?” Derek asks. “The show’s over, remember?”

Stiles sighs. “Maybe I just want to say something to your face like a mature human being. Did that occur to you?”

“No,” Derek says, and hangs up. Stiles is about to grind his teeth in frustration, but then he gets a text. It’s an address. He puts in his GPS and starts driving again.

It takes him about fifteen minutes to drive to the far side of town and park outside a large brick building. He sees the Camaro, so he ventures into the building and up the broad staircase that leads to the second floor. There’s a sliding metal door, which is ajar, so he knocks on it.

Derek walks up a minute later. He looks tired, rumpled and unshaven, dressed in a gray V-neck and black jeans. “Okay,” he says, “what do you want?”

Stiles sighs. He doesn’t blame Derek for being hostile. “I just wanted to tell you . . . I didn’t know what Scott was planning. He didn’t tell me. If he had, I would’ve told him not to be a dick about it.”

Derek studies him in silence for a minute. Then he stands back from the door. “Come on in.”

Stiles does. He looks around the loft, which is almost entirely empty. There are some boxes piled up on one side of the room. “New digs, huh?”

“Yeah, just signed the lease today,” Derek says. “I need to get some furniture and stuff.”

“So . . . you’re settling in,” Stiles says. That makes him happy, although he couldn’t really say why. He always hated the idea of Derek living in the rundown old Hale house. “Cool. I know a good consignment shop or two.”

“I was thinking I would just hit up IKEA – ”

“Dude,” Stiles says, “no. I don’t want to see a werewolf trying to assemble furniture. C’mon. I’ll drive. The Jeep has a trailer hitch.”

Derek studies him for a moment. “Why? Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

“I’m ditching,” Stiles says. “Who wants to sit around and watch Lydia and Jackson make cow eyes at each other, or hear Scott talk about Allison, Allison, Allison? Nope. I’d much rather go furniture shopping with you. What does that say about the state of my life?”

Derek gives him a smack upside the head which doesn’t hurt at all. “Don’t be an asshole.” But he follows Stiles out of the loft and down to the Jeep.

“Hey, did you get Erica and Boyd out okay?” Stiles asks, as he backs out of the parking lot.

“Chris let them go,” Derek says, staring out the window, “but they didn’t make it back here. I don’t know where they went. They said they were leaving, but . . .”

“Leaving? Why?”

“Because nobody gave them a good reason to stick around,” Derek replies, his voice short and angry. Stiles thinks of about a million things he could say in reply to that, but in the end decides it’s more sensible to keep his opinions to himself. Derek might not be the best alpha, but he still thinks that running was the wrong answer. “Peter thinks the alpha pack has them.”

“Ah, yes. Peter.” Stiles thinks that over. “Wait, what? An alpha pack?”

“Yeah. Don’t ask questions because I don’t have answers.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, “I won’t. Yet. But Peter. How’d _that_ happen? Last time I saw him, he was pretty dead.”

Derek’s jaw tightens. “Something about Lydia’s immunity gave him the ability to use her as a puppet to do a spell to bring him back.”

“Wow,” Stiles says. “I guess that’s part of why she was acting so fucking weird,” he adds. “Lack of agency seems to be a real theme we’ve got going on here.”

“What?” Derek asks.

“Nothing. Never mind.”

Surprisingly, they manage to make a decent afternoon out of it. They head for the U-Haul place and get a trailer to attach to the Jeep, then go looking for furniture. Stiles doesn’t think it’s the _first_ time he’s been in Derek’s presence when there weren’t death-defying catastrophes going on, but it’s the first time they’ve done it for more than five minutes. It’s nice to just hang out, to talk about inconsequential things like movies or sports. And it’s nice to spend time with someone who _doesn’t_ know what happened between him and Jackson, where there isn’t that awkwardness between them, that weird hovering state between pity and embarrassment.

Derek has a lot of books, so they get two nice bookshelves, a table and chairs, and a bed that has to be broken down into several pieces to fit in the trailer. Derek becomes strangely attached to this weird blue velour sofa that Stiles thinks is hideous but can’t talk him out of buying.

They’re unloading the trailer when his phone chirps. He glances down to see that he has a text message from an unknown number. Despite his misgivings, he pulls it up, and he’s not surprised to see a message that reads, ‘great assembly, but 1 question, do those sexting laws apply to sluts like u?’

He deletes it without replying, obviously, but then sees Derek giving him a questioning look. “Just a text ad,” he says. Derek frowns slightly but doesn’t argue. His phone chirps again. He surreptitiously turns it off.

Derek really doesn’t have _anything_ for his apartment, so they follow up the consignment store with a trip to the Good Will, where he buys some cookware and linens. “Don’t you have, like, a lot of money?” Stiles asks, as he puts towels in their cart.

“Yeah,” Derek says, “but there’s no point in spending a lot on this sort of stuff. I’ll save it for things that matter.”

That makes sense to Stiles. They add an old television and DVD player to their list of purchases.

It’s nearly five when they finish up, and now it’s Derek’s phone that rings. He looks at the screen and sighs. “Stiles, why is Scott calling me?”

“How should I know?” Stiles asks, grunting as he tries to get all their bags in one trip.

“Give me those before you hurt yourself,” Derek says, grabbing them. Then he answers the phone one-handed. “What? . . . yeah. He’s with me. Why?” There’s another pause, then he says to Stiles, “Scott says you aren’t answering your phone.”

“Oh?” Stiles pretends to look at it. “Battery must’ve gone dead.”

Derek gives him another somewhat suspicious look, but relays this to Scott. Then he sighs. “He says your father is looking for you.”

“Shit,” Stiles says. He should have thought of the fact that his father might get worried when he didn’t see him at the assembly. “Okay, I’ll call him, thanks.”

“He’s been informed,” Derek says into the phone, then jabs the button to end the call with prejudice. But he gives Stiles a curious look. “Are you avoiding Scott?”

“Yeah, a little,” Stiles says.

“Because of what happened at the warehouse? With me?”

“Because of a lot of reasons,” Stiles says. He turns his phone back on and ignores the twelve new text messages. “Hey, Dad. No, I’m fine. Sorry I didn’t . . . yeah. I’ll be home soon.” He says goodbye and hangs up. “He’s just been worried about me, you know, since that night at the police station.”

Derek nods and doesn’t ask any further questions. Stiles wants to hug him a little for not pushing the issue. They get all their purchases unloaded, and Stiles helps him get things set up in the kitchen. It’s a bachelor’s kitchen, with a microwave, toaster, blender, and not much else. There’s a rapping on the door as Derek is juggling a handful of pots and pans. “Want me to – ” Stiles says.

“Yeah, thanks,” Derek says, so Stiles jogs over to the door. He pulls it open to reveal Jackson standing there. Despite his best effort, he takes a step backwards. Jackson smirks at him.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles asks.

“Derek’s my alpha now,” Jackson says, as if Stiles should have realized this. “Hey, great assembly today. I didn’t see you there.”

Stiles has to swallow hard before he can speak, but he doesn’t get the chance to say anything, because Derek comes out of the kitchen with that same puzzled frown. Stiles knows that he’s heard the way his heartbeat skyrocketed, but when he sees Jackson, the confusion clears off his face. Of course, Derek is coming to the wrong conclusions – the conclusion that Stiles would be afraid of Jackson because of everything he did as the kanima – but Stiles much prefers that to the accurate conclusions.

“It’s okay, I invited him,” he says to Stiles. “He’s got a lot of work to do, learning control over the shift and everything.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Right. Because he’s a werewolf now. Just like he wanted.”

Jackson just smirks at him. “I guess some of us are born lucky.”

“Nice display of remorse over all the people you killed, too,” Stiles says, fists clenching at his sides, aiming below the belt even though he _knows_ that wasn’t Jackson’s fault.

“Hey,” Derek says, getting between them. “I’m not going to ask you two to get along. But I am going to ask you to keep it civil.”

“Whatever you say, O Alpha,” Stiles says. “I’ve got to head home anyway.”

He goes out to the Jeep and drives back to the house. He’s glad to see that the house is empty. He checks his text messages – there are fifteen now – and what he sees makes him thoroughly understand the girls who have killed themselves in the wake of similar situations. Two are from his father and there’s another from Scott, but the rest are general solicitations or insults. Several people are laughing that he had his father step in to give the lecture on sexting laws. One of them makes a lewd comment about the sheriff and his familiarity with the issue that nearly makes Stiles break his phone. But the last is the worst, the one suggesting a different position next time because he ‘really doesn’t look like he’s having fun’ in the picture.

Sheriff Stilinski comes home to find Stiles throwing up in the bathroom. He sits with him for a while, but Stiles has deleted the text messages and won’t tell him what they said. The last thing he needs is his father coming down as the arm of the law and trying to stop what can’t be stopped. It will only make things worse.

“Let’s call and see if we can get your number changed,” he says quietly, when it becomes clear that Stiles won’t budge on the matter.

Stiles isn’t sure that will help, either, but he understands that his father needs to do _something_ , so he agrees. They get him a new number and then his father gets Thai food for dinner and they watch a movie together, and eventually, he manages to fall asleep.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your encouraging comments so far. You guys are wonderful. <3
> 
> The analysis of Peter's psyche should be credited to the lovely [werebohen](http://werebohen.tumblr.com), who posts amazing Peter Hale meta.
> 
> Also, I just sort of made some stuff up about how Peter was able to control Lydia and such because, let's be fair, if that was ever explained in the show, I blinked and missed it.

It takes the bullies three days to get Stiles’ new number. He’s not sure how they do it. He suspects that someone merely waited until he wasn’t looking and snagged the phone from his backpack, looking up the number and then replacing it. All he knows is that the messages resume on Thursday evening. He doesn’t say anything to his father about it.

There isn’t a lot of the school year left at this point – only a couple months – so he’ll just have to handle it. But everywhere he goes, there are stares and giggles and whispered remarks. Sometimes hands, too. He does his best to ignore it.

It’s his father who keeps him going during all of this, because every morning, when Stiles drags himself out of bed after six hours of restless sleep and nightmares, and stares into the refrigerator, he can see his father watching him. They don’t talk about it, but he knows that his father is proud of him, that his father thinks he’s unbelievably strong, for the way he keeps going with his head held high, no matter what everyone throws at him.

The only time they talk about it is when Sheriff Stilinski sits down with him the day after the assembly and says, “You should see a doctor.”

Stiles looks at the floor, shoulders hunching up. He wants to argue, but he knows his father is right. There are things he should be tested for. If Jackson was willing to rape him, there might have been others. It’s occurred to him in the past, but the idea made his stomach clench, so he’s put it out of his mind as much as possible.

Taking Stiles’ silence as agreement, his father says, “I’ve made you an appointment. It’s at a clinic in Sacramento. I know it’s a bit of a drive, but I figured you’d prefer to go somewhere out of town.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Thanks.”

His father reaches out and squeezes his shoulder. “Friday after school. Okay?”

“Okay,” Stiles says.

Things between him and Scott become awkward quickly. Scott wants to talk about what’s going on, but he doesn’t know how. So instead he talks about Allison. Stiles knows that his pain is real, he respects that, but it seems so paltry compared to his own. He just can’t be interested. So they try to talk about the random shit that they’ve always talked about, but every conversation is awkward, stilted, filled with silences that contain too much that can’t be discussed. It gradually becomes a wedge between them. He wants to fix it, but he doesn’t know how.

His safe place quickly becomes Derek’s loft. Derek doesn’t know what happened to him. He might be the only person in Beacon Hills who doesn’t, for that matter. So it’s the only place Stiles can go where it isn’t an elephant in the room. The relief is incredible. Derek’s ignorance becomes a shield that Stiles can hold between him and the world.

Sometimes Isaac is there in the afternoons, but the curly-haired teenager never brings it up, never says anything about it. And after that first time, Derek makes sure that Stiles and Jackson are never at the loft at the same time.

He buys a white board and they start doing research. Peter knows the origins of the alpha pack, and after equal parts flattery and threats, they get him to tell them about it. Stiles starts collecting as much data as he can on the werewolves who have come to town. His father helps keep him plugged in, too, because by this point Erica and Boyd both have official missing persons cases open. The assumption of the police is that they ran away together.

Stiles isn’t one hundred percent sure that’s not true, but Peter and Derek found physical evidence that the two teenagers had had a close encounter with the alpha pack that had led to a brief struggle. The odds seem to point in the direction of an abduction. But Stiles can’t figure out what the alpha pack would even want with Erica and Boyd. He writes ‘WHY?’ at the top of the whiteboard in large letters.

“That’s a good question,” Derek says on one of the late spring afternoons. “Why are you helping me? I’m not your alpha, remember?”

“You’re not Scott’s alpha,” Stiles says, studying the whiteboard. He hears Derek’s sharp intake of breath. “I never said you weren’t mine.”

There’s a silence so long that he thinks Derek won’t reply. But then he just says, “Thanks.”

Stiles nods a little. “Yeah. No problem.”

His testing all comes back clean, which is a big enough relief that he and his father get cheeseburgers to celebrate. It’s a little morbid, he thinks, a ‘hooray you didn’t catch STDs when you got raped’ party, but he’s got little enough reason to celebrate lately. He’ll take what he can get.

A fun new game starts at school. People start trying to guess the identity of the faceless figure in the photographs with Stiles. Lydia’s parties are big events, so there are a lot of options. People start photoshopping various faces into the photograph and then sending it to Stiles with ‘yes or no?’ attached. Stiles handles that for the first few days, but then someone guesses Scott, and he spends half an hour being sick in the bathroom.

He doesn’t know what to do about it, beyond ignoring it. Then he gets an unexpected opportunity, because someone guesses Danny. It’s a terrible photoshop job; for one thing, Jackson and Danny’s skin tones are nothing alike. But he takes it and finds Danny in the locker room after school, getting ready for cross country practice.

“Hey,” he says, “can you do me a favor?”

“What’s up?” Danny asks. They’re not friends, not exactly, but he’s always been quick to shut down anyone catcalling at Stiles in the hallway.

“Look, uh . . . you’ve had my back during all this and I’m super grateful,” Stiles says, “and I don’t want you to risk your status as insanely popular jock or anything, but I . . . figured you would want to know about this. Brace yourself,” he adds, and then pulls the photo up on his phone.

Danny’s eyes go wide. “Fucking _shit_ ,” he says, and Stiles can’t help but laugh a little. “Who did that?”

“I don’t know. I get three or four of them a day. People have guessed everyone from you to the freakin’ Pope. It’s like . . . a game to them.”

“Well, where’d the photo come from?” Danny asks, so Stiles pulls up the message and Danny looks at the number. He leafs through the list on his own phone for a minute before saying, “Oh, yeah, Mike Wiemer. Okay. I’ll handle it.”

Stiles breathes out slowly. “Thanks. I mean. I don’t, I just . . .”

“Dude,” Danny says, and squeezes his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll handle it.”

Stiles nods. “Thanks.”

“And . . . if you want to talk . . . I mean . . .” Danny sighs. “Jesus, Stiles, why _haven’t_ you told anyone who did this? Your dad, at least, he’s gotta know, right?”

“No proof,” Stiles says, and lifts his hands in surrender. “He said, he said. Not eager to go there.”

“I guess I can understand that,” Danny says. “I just, can it get worse than this?” he asks, gesturing to the picture on Stiles’ phone.

Stiles can’t help it. He laughs. “Oh, Danny boy,” he says, “welcome to my life, where things can _always_ get worse.”

Danny grimaces but doesn’t argue. But the photos stop, or at least the photoshopped versions of them do.

A week later, Scott catches up with him as he’s leaving school. “Hey,” he says, “did you hear? About Jackson?”

“Jesus, what now,” Stiles says.

“He’s leaving,” Scott says. “I guess his parents are sending him to London to, I don’t know, recover from nearly dying and all. They’ve got him enrolled in a fancy private school there and everything. I heard about it from Lydia.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. He hasn’t talked to Lydia since the night they turned the kanima into a werewolf. Sometimes he sees her looking at him like she wants to say something, but she obviously has no idea what to say, and neither does he. “Well. That’s . . . great. Or something.”

“Well, it’s good that he won’t be able to bother you anymore,” Scott says.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, not bothering to point out that Jackson doesn’t need to. What he’s set in motion won’t be stopped by his departure. Stiles will forever be the party boy who doesn’t know how to loosen up and have a good time, according to his latest text message.

He finds out from Derek that afternoon that he’s made arrangements for Jackson to join a local pack. Stiles wants to be pissed off about it, but he isn’t. He doesn’t care what happens to Jackson. The damage is done. He’ll undoubtedly be happy on the other side of the pond. It doesn’t matter where he goes; his life will always be better than Stiles’.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“Son,” Sheriff Stilinski says, looking at the photographs tacked up all over Stiles’ walls, “I understand the need to distract yourself. I truly do. But what in the _hell_ is all this?”

“Just, uh, you know,” Stiles says. “Following leads. Erica and Boyd.”

His father leans against the door jam and analyzes this for a few minutes. “I never heard you mention either of them before they went missing. Now you’re suddenly obsessed with finding them. What gives?”

“Am I not allowed to be worried about kids my age who went missing?” Stiles asks.

“Of course you are,” Stilinski says. “Am I not allowed to know my own son well enough to realize that has nothing to do with what’s going on?”

Stiles stares at the missing posters tacked on his wall in silence. His father lets out a slow sigh and walks in to sit down on the edge of Stiles’ bed.

“Jackson leaves next week,” he says.

“Yep,” Stiles says.

“Are you rethinking your decision about pressing charges?” Stilinski asks. “It’s going to be your last chance.”

“Nope,” Stiles says. He pushes this aside. “C’mon, Dad, share. If you’ve got leads, share.”

Sheriff Stilinski rubs a hand over the back of his head. “I don’t. They may as well have vanished into thin air. Nobody’s even really sure of the last time they saw them. Their attendance was patchy in the last few weeks before their disappearance, although their parents didn’t seem aware of that fact. The last time anyone can say for _sure_ that they saw them was the day of that big lacrosse game. Both their parents say they saw them that morning. Boyd’s parents say everything was normal. Erica’s say that she’d been going through some big changes lately. Started dressing different, et cetera.”

“Probably because she started dating Boyd, right?” Stiles says, since he wants to steer his father away from werewolf conclusions.

Sheriff Stilinski nods. “Yeah, that’s my assumption. She didn’t bring any of her meds with her when she left, though. Now, her parents say that she wasn’t always compliant with them, but she’s been gone three weeks now. If she cut them cold turkey, odds are good she would have wound up in a hospital somewhere. So where is she getting them?”

“Maybe she stockpiled them,” Stiles says. “If she was planning to leave. You know, like . . . skip a day or two here and there, never enough to have really adverse effects, but enough that she could put some aside, lay in a supply.”

“Like a certain someone does with their Adderall?” Stilinski says.

Stiles just shrugs a little. He can’t tell his father that Erica just flat out doesn’t need the medication anymore, so he’ll go with what works. “Either way, neither of them came from money, right? So if they just took off, where’d they get the cash?”

“Parents say none of them are missing money,” Stilinski agrees. “I don’t know, kid. I admit that the possibility that they ran away together is the most logical, but something about it smells wrong to me.”

“Yeah, but who would kidnap a seventeen year old black male who weighed almost two hundred pounds?” Stiles asks. “He doesn’t exactly scream ‘victim’. And I can’t imagine many kidnappers go for two kids together. That’s got to be a hell of a lot harder than just snatching one.”

Stilinski nods. “I don’t know. I feel like I’m missing something.”

“I hear ya,” Stiles says, looking at his pictures. He still can’t figure out why the alpha pack would want Erica and Boyd. Hell, he can’t even figure out why the alpha pack is _in town_. What could they want in Beacon Hills?

“Look, if this Deucalion guy is the leader,” he says several days later to Derek, “and he formed the alpha pack because he was pissed at what Gerard did to him, you’d think he was after Gerard, right? But Gerard’s dead.”

“Presumably,” Peter interjects.

“Presumably,” Stiles agrees. “In any case, it’s not like having Erica and Boyd are going to help him with that.”

“Maybe he’s recruiting,” Derek says.

“No offense, Derek,” Peter says, “but if he wanted to round up some alphas to take on the hunters, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t start with you.”

Derek flips him off.

“Proximity,” Stiles says. “The hunters are here. Derek is here. And Derek’s got reason to have a beef against the hunters, too. So Derek is a reasonable enough prospect. But if that’s what they want, why not approach like allies? You know, knock on the door and say, ‘hey, you hate hunters, we hate hunters, let’s go have a fun time and murder them together’?”

“Deucalion is a psychopath?” Peter suggests.

“Takes one to know one,” Isaac chips in.

Peter gives him an offended look. “I beg your pardon. I am not a psychopath. I have narcissistic personality disorder and PTSD.”

“Really?” Stiles asked. “I would’ve pegged you for dissociative identity disorder, although I suppose there’s no solid evidence that such a thing actually exists.”

Derek sighs heavily. “Can we get back to the point? Stiles is right. Even if Deucalion wants to use Erica and Boyd as leverage to get me to work with him, why has he held them for weeks without approaching me in any way?”

“Maybe it was a crime of opportunity,” Peter suggests. “Erica and Boyd stumbled into their hands. They’ve restrained them but haven’t decided what to do with them yet.”

Stiles blinks. “That . . . actually sounds pretty reasonable,” he says. “Especially since Erica and Boyd were planning on leaving town. If either of them told Deucalion that, he may assume that Derek doesn’t even realize they’ve been abducted. So he’ll just hang onto them until he figures out how he use them to his benefit.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Isaac says, tentatively. “I mean, we’re one step ahead of him, if he doesn’t know that we know.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I think we’re going about this all wrong. I don’t think we should be looking for Erica and Boyd. Let the police handle that. We should be looking for Deucalion.”

“That sounds grand in theory,” Peter says, “but I don’t know how you’re going to put it into practice.”

“Look, he doesn’t live in a vacuum,” Stiles says. “He has to sleep, probably with a roof over his head. He has to eat. You said you knew what he looked like, that you met him once or twice when he was in town last time. If you could sit down with a sketch artist – ”

Peter gives him an incredulous look. “I don’t recall being on particularly good terms with the Beacon Hills Police Department.”

“All your murders were pinned on Kate,” Stiles reminds him.

A slight smile crosses Peter’s face. “Now that is karmic justice at its finest,” he says, “but I’m still not walking into the police department and offering to sketch a man who I can’t explain why he’s involved.”

“Then let me,” Derek says. “Share the memory with me. I’ll do it. I’ll say I saw someone matching Erica’s description with another man. Or two. I can give them sketches of Deucalion, Ennis, and Kali – those are the three you met, right? And then the entire police department of Beacon Hills will be looking for them. Even if that doesn’t get us anywhere, it may step on Deucalion’s toes enough to force him into making a move.”

“Because that always works out so well for you,” Peter says, rolling his eyes.

Stiles gives him a hard look, then suddenly grins.

“What are you smiling about?” Peter asks.

“Oh, I was just suddenly remembering the time I set you on fire,” Stiles says casually. “Good times, right?”

Peter narrows his eyes.

“Play nice, kids,” Derek says.

Stiles doesn’t want to play nice. He values Peter’s intellect, and he understands why Derek is keeping him around. But he doesn’t trust him, and every time he thinks of what Peter did to Lydia, he wants to stab him a few dozen times.

School ends, which is a huge relief. Scott is in summer school, and he’s on a campaign to ‘better’ himself, so he’s taking some online courses too, and working a lot, saving up for a dirt bike. Avoiding him is easy for Stiles. They text back and forth but rarely see each other. He hates the way Scott looks at him now, like he’s something broken, someone that has to be handled with care. It’s not Scott’s fault. He doesn’t think that he would react any better if their situations were reversed. But he just can’t stand being around him, not yet.

The day after Jackson leaves, Derek goes down to the station and says he thinks he saw Erica with a man down at the mall. After some debate, they decided to have Peter share his memories with both Derek and Isaac, and they would give descriptions of Deucalion and Kali. Peter mentions that the sheriff met Ennis, so they decide to steer clear of him, lest Sheriff Stilinski get suspicious about what’s going on. Since Derek and Isaac have no connection on the surface, it won’t seem like they were plotting things together.

Naturally, the police station reacts with enthusiasm to their first real lead. They run the sketches through facial recognition, although there are no hits, and everyone in Beacon Hills is on the lookout. Stiles reacts with some satisfaction, even though it doesn’t get them anywhere. He’s getting better at the detective stuff, and at least something is happening.

It’s shaping up to be a quiet summer, at least socially. Allison’s gone. Jackson’s gone. Scott’s immersed in his own stuff. Stiles spends the days at Derek’s loft. Sometimes they talk about Erica and Boyd or the alpha pack. Sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they watch movies or play video games. Isaac’s in and out, but he seems to come more out of obligation than because he wants to be there, even though he’s sleeping in the upstairs room. Peter shows up occasionally to drop cryptic hints or annoying remarks before he fucks off again.

“If I’m like . . . pissing you off coming around all the time, just . . . let me know,” Stiles says to Derek as summer heads into its second week.

“It’s fine,” is all Derek says in response. It seems a little crazy to Stiles, especially given how antagonistic their relationship has been in the past, but Derek actually seems to enjoy having him around. It occurs to him for the first time that Derek is probably lonely. He came from a big family, surrounded by a huge pack. And then, even though they were gone, he had at least had Laura. Since her death, he’s really had no one. His efforts to build a pack fell into ruin around him, and it was only half his fault. So Stiles finds himself glad to be there, to keep Derek company, to talk about books and places they’ve been, stories they haven’t heard before.

The police department gets a tip that a couple matching Erica and Boyd’s description has been seen in San Francisco. It could be a mistake, Isaac says, but Stiles thinks the alpha pack called it in. “The police were getting too close,” he says.

Derek feels compelled to check it out anyway, so they drive down to San Francisco and look around the area that they were supposedly seen. He can’t catch either of their scents, and he doesn’t feel anything through the pack bonds that join them together – not that he necessarily would, he says, since Erica and Boyd left his pack voluntarily.

“Well, we might as well go see some sights while we’re here,” Stiles says. Derek gives him a politely incredulous look, but Stiles talks him into going to the beach and to Chinatown to get some lunch. “You lived in New York, right?” he asks. “Do you miss the city?”

“No,” Derek says, “I hated it. It made me claustrophobic. Most werewolves don’t like living in cities.”

“I think I could like it,” Stiles says. “Getting lost in the . . . the anonymity.”

Since school has gotten out, he had thought things would get better, but he can’t go anywhere without at least a few people whispering and staring. Everyone in town knows (except Derek, who’s the world’s biggest hermit), even the adults. They look on him with pity, or disgust, depending on which version of the story they’ve gotten. The teenagers are still just laughing at him. If it weren’t for Derek’s loft, he probably wouldn’t ever leave the house anymore.

They eat noodles and go see the buffalo and then head back to Beacon Hills. Stiles falls asleep on the ride back, feeling comfortable and relaxed. He wakes up when Derek shakes him, parked outside the loft. It’s late. “Do you want to . . . come upstairs?” Derek asks, a little hesitant.

“I should get home,” Stiles says, rubbing his eyes. “Dad knows I don’t have any friends, so if I call him and say I’m staying at someone’s house, he’ll worry.”

Derek regards him for a few minutes, then says, abruptly, “I’m sorry. You’re wasting your entire summer on my stupid problems.”

“Hey,” Stiles says, surprised. “It’s not like that. I _want_ to help.”

Derek shakes his head. He’s silent for a long minute, then says, “I never should have left them there. I should have gone to get them as soon as you called me.”

“Dude, you kinda had bigger problems,” Stiles says, but his stomach twists a little. “But I . . . sort of feel the same way, too. I could’ve gone and gotten them myself. But instead I just sat at home feeling sorry for myself because Gerard beat me up.” He reaches out and grabs Derek’s hand. “We’re _gonna_ find them, Derek. Somehow.”

With a sigh, Derek says, “I hope you’re right. I just . . .” He shakes his head. “I’m still kind of pissed off at them. And then I just feel worse about everything.”

“I think you’ve got every right to be pissed off at them,” Stiles says, “if that helps at all. I mean, no, it wasn’t all roses. But I don’t think you ever told them it was going to be. They fuckin’ ditched you, and that sucks, and they had a right to do it, but you have a right to be upset about it.”

Derek gives him a long look, then nods. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Stiles says. He gets out of the Camaro and heads for the Jeep. Then he hesitates and turns around as Derek gets out of the car. “Hey, uh . . . seriously, though, don’t feel like I’m . . . there’s nowhere I’d rather be than here, okay?”

Derek frowns at this, as if there’s a part of him that just can’t comprehend that. But he nods again. “Okay. Yeah.”

“I’ll . . . see you tomorrow, then?” Stiles says.

“Yeah,” Derek says. “See you tomorrow.”

It’s not until he gets home that it occurs to him to wonder _why_ Derek had invited him upstairs. It’s not like his own house was more than fifteen minutes away, and it couldn’t have really been for social reasons, because it was far too late to watch a movie or anything like that. Of course, it could have just been to keep him from having to drive when he was tired, but he’s never made an offer like that before.

Sheriff Stilinski glances up when he sees Stiles standing in the front hallway with a befuddled expression on his face. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I just . . . think I might have inadvertently cockblocked the friend I was hanging out with today,” Stiles says. “I mean, it’s not like we haven’t hung out before, but we were out and about and I guess it was sort of like a date although we didn’t really intend for it to be and then he invited me in, which he’s never done before, and I said no without thinking about it and he looked kinda hurt and shit.”

His father considers him for a minute, then pats the sofa next to him. Stiles walks over and sits down next to him. “I don’t think it counts as cockblocking,” he says, wincing a little at the term, “unless you actually would have had sex with him, if you’d realized that’s why he was inviting you in.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, twisting the bottom of his shirt in his hands. “I guess not.”

Derek’s hot, okay; it’s impossible to be in a room with him and _not_ notice. He’s hot like the _sun_ , and the last couple months of actually spending time with him in non-world-ending situations has made Stiles notice that he’s actually a pretty good guy. He enjoys spending time with him, and not just because he’s the only person who doesn’t know about Jackson. Stiles thinks that before Jackson, he might have entertained some idle or even not-so-idle thoughts about getting all up on that, but now the idea makes his stomach twist.

His father reaches out and rubs a hand over his back. “So this guy,” he says. “Anyone I know?”

“Nah, just . . . just a friend of Scott’s, he’s a couple years older, not in my class.”

The sheriff immediately draws the correct conclusions that this means the ‘friend’ is someone who doesn’t know about the Jackson situation. “And he didn’t pressure you, right?”

“No, no,” Stiles says. “He was so non-pressuring about it that I didn’t even realize it had happened until I was on the way home. Hell, I’m still not even sure I’m not jumping to conclusions. All he asked was ‘do you want to come upstairs’, not ‘do you want to come shag me’, so maybe he was just offering to let me crash since it was so late.” He frowns and adds, “God knows I have a tough time picturing this guy actually being interested in me. He tends to treat me like a pest. Or, well, did at first. I guess we’ve gotten along better lately.”

“Well, in guy language, ‘do you want to come upstairs’ is pretty much a prelude to intimacy,” Sheriff Stilinski says. “Otherwise he would have phrased it differently, like, ‘it’s late, do you want to crash here’.”

“Yeah, maybe, but then again, he’s a complete social incompetent, so it’s one hundred ten percent possible he didn’t mean anything by it and had no idea of the connotations.” Stiles gives a shrug and decides to let it go, because it’s pretty difficult to believe that Derek would actually have any interest in him that way. He should just be grateful for what he’s got.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

In amongst all this, Stiles is doing some copious research on another subject. So when he turns up at Derek’s the next day, he says, “You wouldn’t be averse to me kicking Peter’s ass a little, would you?”

Derek gives him a skeptical look, as if to say that his problem is more with the likelihood of success than the act itself, so Stiles explains. Derek listens. Then he has questions. It takes them about an hour to get it all hashed out. Stiles goes to get what he needs. Derek gives Peter a call.

The formerly-dead werewolf shows up at the loft about half an hour later, and by then Stiles is back. “New lead?” Peter asks, kicking dust off his boots as he comes inside.

“Something like that,” Stiles says, and throws the handful of wolfsbane powder into his face. Peter pitches backwards and hits the floor with a thud.

“Now _that_ is some karmic justice,” Derek says. He drags Peter across the room so Stiles has enough space to work, putting him in a mountain ash circle.

He comes to a few minutes later, shaking his head groggily. “Really, boys?” he asks, when he realizes he’s trapped.

“Really,” Stiles says. “I have some questions for you. About Lydia.”

Peter sighs. “Yes, I’m a horrible person, I repent.”

“That’s not the question, fucknuts,” Stiles says. “I’ve done enough research to figure out how you did what you did. And according to the research, you still have the ability to have that same psychic hold on her. I am not down with that. We are going to undo it. Capisce?”

“That’s more of a statement than a question,” Peter says.

“I want to know how you knew she was immune,” Stiles says.

Peter sighs. “Because she’s been bitten before,” he says. “A long time ago now. There was a pack of werehyenas in town. They don’t pack the same way; there’s no alpha-beta structure. Anyone can turn a human. She got nipped on the heel while she was in her stroller. Her mother brought her to Deaton because she was worried about rabies. Rumor travelled around. It wasn’t that hard to find her again.”

“And you were able to manipulate her because you didn’t just bite her, but fed her a few drops of your blood while she was unconscious,” Stiles says. “I know that; I saw you do it. I just didn’t realize what you were doing at the time.”

“Guilty,” Peter says, with that smile of his.

“You infected her like some sort of parasite,” Stiles says. “Well, if you’re the poison, I’m the cure.” He turns to Derek. “Keep him here.”

“I don’t think he’s going anywhere,” Derek says.

Stiles leaves the loft and drives to Lydia’s house. It’s the first time he’ll be seeing her since school ended, and even then, they barely spoke those last few weeks. He hesitates, but this is important. He rings the bell. Mrs. Martin answers, and goes to get Lydia. She looks surprised to see him. “Hi,” she says.

“Hey,” he says. “Hey, uh . . . I need to talk to you. In private. It’s about Peter Hale.”

Lydia gives a little shiver, but gets in the Jeep with him. They drive aimlessly for a few minutes, and then he starts telling her about the research he’s been doing, about how Peter was able to use her. “He stopped doing it because he doesn’t need to anymore, but he still has the ability,” he says, and Lydia shudders. “But uh . . . there’s a way to reverse it. It doesn’t look _comfortable_ , but . . .”

“I’ll do it,” she interrupts.

Stiles nods and drives back to the loft. Peter is still sitting in the mountain ash circle with that expression of faint amusement on his face. “Hello, beautiful,” he says, when Lydia comes in.

Lydia points to the circle. “I can cross that, right?” she asks.

“You’ll have your opportunity to kick him in the balls when I’m done,” Stiles says. He pulls over a chair. “Sit down,” he adds. He takes out a box of what he needs. The first thing is a ceremonial knife and bowl. He has Lydia hold her hand out and makes a cut across her palm, squeezing out several drops of blood. “Derek, help me out here,” he says, and waves his hand over the mountain ash circle, breaking it.

Peter isn’t anxious to donate, but Derek’s alpha strength is superior to his, and he holds Peter down while Stiles pries his hand open and draws the knife across it. Peter makes a hissing noise as his blood mixes with Lydia’s in the bowl. Derek keeps him held down, watching in interest as Stiles takes out a piece of red string and puts it in the bowl so it soaks through with both their blood.

“Do you actually know what you’re doing?” he asks, casually pressing Peter’s face into the floor.

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles says. “Did you think I was just making this shit up? I’ve done a metric fuck ton of research lately. And I may have stolen a bunch of books from Deaton’s office.”

He ties the string around Lydia’s thumb – “for willpower” – and Peter’s index finger – “for authority.” Then, with the string connecting them, he gives Lydia a sprig of mistletoe to hold. “Mistletoe denies entry,” he tells her. He loops the string around it just after it leaves her hand. “Okay, now, this is the part that I don’t quite know what to expect,” he adds, and pulls out a box of matches.

“Please do not burn my loft down,” Derek says, looking at the small flame with apprehension.

“No worries, I brought a fire extinguisher in case things get really out of hand,” Stiles says. He measures the thread carefully and sets it on fire at exactly the midway point between the two. Despite the string not being particularly flammable and soaked with blood besides, the fire immediately catches, racing down the thread towards the two parties.

Peter struggles to get free, though it seems more out of instinct than anything else, but Lydia sits perfectly still. The fire burns all the way through the thread and then the mistletoe goes up in a brief gout of flame. When it gutters out, both of them are completely unharmed, if a little sooty, and the thread and mistletoe are completely gone.

“Nifty,” Stiles says, impressed with himself.

“Did it work?” Lydia asked.

“I think we can probably assume so, but if you see this jackass in your dreams anymore, come tell me, okay?” Stiles says, and Lydia nods.

Peter heaves a sigh. “Might I get up now?”

Lydia narrows her eyes at him. “I suppose,” she says, and Derek gets off him. The older werewolf stands and straightens his clothes.

“That was a charming experience,” he says.

“You know, for some reason, nobody here is really interested in your opinion about it,” Stiles says. “I can’t imagine why.”

Peter just smiles at him. “I can’t imagine why you haven’t turned him yet, nephew. He’d make a good addition to our pack.”

“ _My_ pack,” Derek corrects. “Now get out.”

“Touchy, touchy.” Peter leaves without another word.

Stiles tries to smile at Lydia. “C’mon. I’ll take you home. Thanks for, uh, thanks for the help, Derek,” he adds, and Derek just nods at him. The drive back to Lydia’s house passes in silence. Even after they’ve gotten there, they just sit in the driveway for a long minute, not talking.

“Uhm, so,” Lydia finally says, “how are you doing?”

“I’m . . . okay,” Stiles says.

“I’m really sorry about . . . what happened,” Lydia says.

“Why are _you_ sorry?”

“Well, it was my party . . . I should have been paying more attention.”

Stiles reaches over and gives her forearm a squeeze. “It wasn’t your fault, Lydia. Not any more than it was my fault. The only person whose fault it is, is the guy who did it. My dad’s told me that pretty much every morning and evening since he found out about it. Okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, looking down at her lap. “Okay. But . . . thanks for helping me out. You know. I didn’t know what happened to Peter and I didn’t know how to ask. No one seemed to want me in the loop. I guess you guys thought you were protecting me, but . . .”

“From now on, you are one hundred percent in the loop,” Stiles says. “I promise.”

Lydia smiles now. “Thanks.”

A moment of silence passes, but it’s a lot less awkward.

“So . . . you’ve been spending a lot of time with Derek, then?” Lydia asks.

“Yeah.” If she’s going to be in the loop, then there’s a lot he’ll need to tell her. “Erica and Boyd are missing. There’s a pack of alphas . . .”

They wind up going out for coffee. He has to talk for a very long time, to explain everything from the beginning, and Lydia being Lydia, has all sorts of intelligent questions to ask. She has some theories about how to track down the alpha pack, so Stiles asks her if she wants to come by Derek’s the next day, and they can go over them. She says okay, and he takes her back home.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty much how I wish this reveal had happened in canon.

 

Two days later, Stiles’ doorbell rings at around nine o’clock at night. His father is working night shift, and he approaches it with some apprehension. He doesn’t put it past his tormenters to come to his house. So far, they haven’t, but he suspects that that’s because they don’t want the sheriff pissed off at them. But when he looks through the peephole, it’s Lydia, so he opens the door.

“Hey,” he says, and frowns when he sees that she’s been crying.

She looks up at him with reddened eyes and says, “It was Jackson, wasn’t it. Who raped you.”

Stiles blanches despite himself, and rubs a hand through his hair. He’s been growing it out. He just wants to be – _different_ , in some indefinable way. “C’mon in,” he says, standing back to let her inside. He shuts the door behind her, and turns to look back at her, only get to slapped in the face. “Ow, Lydia, what the hell,” he protests.

“You should have told me,” she says.

Stiles looks away. “Nope,” he says.

“You think I didn’t deserve to know I was dating a rapist?” Lydia says.

After a moment, Stiles heads into the kitchen and gets two mugs to make them both tea. He sets them down on the counter. “Back when you were dating him? You didn’t know that I _existed_. Look me in the eye and tell me that you would have believed me if I told you.”

Lydia’s gaze slides to the side. “I don’t know,” she says quietly.

“Well, that was reason enough for me not to tell you,” Stiles says. “I didn’t tell _anyone_ , Lyds. I didn’t want to acknowledge it had _happened_. I thought – I could just – pretend I was okay until eventually I would be. That’s all.”

Lydia sits down at the kitchen table. Stiles busies himself making the tea. “You helped me save his life.”

“That’s what you wanted to do,” Stiles says.

“After everything he did to you . . . after he put those photographs up for everyone to see . . . you still helped me save him.”

“Look, everything happened really fast,” Stiles says, pushing a hand through his hair. “Before he put the photos up, I sort of hoped nobody would ever know about it. Then, the whole thing with the kanima, and, and I didn’t have _time_ to tell you, time to explain. It would have come off all wrong, like . . . I don’t know. Besides, I can’t play judge, jury, and executioner. What he did to me was horrible. And I wouldn’t have shed a single tear if he had bit it. But maybe that’s not what was meant to happen.” He shuts the cabinet that holds the tea and says, “Frankly, I’m just glad he’s gone.”

Lydia wipes her eyes. “I feel like I should do something. Is voodoo a thing that works?”

“I dunno,” Stiles says, and tries to laugh. “Don’t worry about it, anyway. I mean, Jackson had so many awful qualities, and you dated him regardless, what’s one more?”

Lydia gives him a narrow-eyed stare. “He might do it to others. We should do something.”

Stiles shakes his head. “Let it go, Lydia. I’m not . . . strong enough. To try to bring it to light. Okay? If my dad, the sheriff, couldn’t convince me to press charges, you aren’t going to.”

“What if there was a witness?” Lydia offers. “I could say I saw something.”

“Look, even if he got convicted, he’s a werewolf. It’s not like he’d sit quietly in a jail cell.” Stiles just shakes his head. “How’d you figure it out, anyway?”

Lydia sighs and looks away. “I didn’t really . . . _look_ at those photographs the first time, you know? I didn’t want to see them. But after you helped me with Peter, I thought . . . maybe I could help you. I thought maybe you honestly didn’t _know_ who had done it to you – that you were drunk or roofied or something – so maybe I could identify them and we could press charges. But . . . once I actually _looked_ at those photographs . . . I know what Jackson looks like naked, you know? And then I thought back to the party. He usually hangs right by me, you know, making sure no other guys make a pass at me, but that party, that night, he had wandered off and I hadn’t seen him for over half an hour, and he never told me where he’d been. Put that together with . . . some other things, and I just . . .”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says.

“Why are you sorry?” she asks him.

“I don’t know,” Stiles says. “I’m just sorry.”

“You really wouldn’t have said anything?” Lydia asks. “What if we had really gotten back together, after the whole kanima thing? Been a couple again?”

Stiles shakes his head again. “I don’t know, Lydia. I want to say I would’ve told you, but I can’t fuckin’ swear to it, you know? Anyway, he’s gone now. I just want to put it behind me.”

“But it isn’t over,” Lydia says. “I know that people are still harassing you.”

“I can handle some text messages,” Stiles says. “It isn’t a big deal, so don’t make it one. Okay?”

Lydia gives him a look for a long moment, but then sighs and says, “Okay. Fine. I just . . . don’t like to think of you in pain.”

“Life is pain, highness,” Stiles quotes. “Anyone who says differently is – ”

“ – selling something,” Lydia finishes, and they both laugh. “Okay. But I still say we should see if we can learn voodoo and give him the galloping cockrot from across the ocean.”

“You’re on,” Stiles says.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

If the alpha pack called in the tip to misdirect the police department, Stiles thinks it has to have been because the police had stumbled upon something that would have actually helped them find Deucalion and the others. So he asks his father if he can take a look at the tips and leads they had gotten. His father brings home the files. A number of people had, in fact, seen Deucalion around town. He’s fairly distinctive, given the sunglasses and cane.

They had never gotten there in time to catch him, but given the pattern of sightings, had the general area that he was probably living in well marked. Sheriff Stilinski had accordingly increased police presence in the area, trying to catch a glimpse of him. That, Stiles thinks, is probably why the alpha pack called in the fake tip. He finds it interesting that they chose to do that rather than simply move to a different part of town.

He’s got the map tacked up on the wall with the various sightings, and is examining all the buildings in that area, when his father comes in and sits down on the edge of his bed. He’s quiet for a few minutes before saying, “Stiles, why do I feel like you know something about this?”

“What?” Stiles asks, pretending not to know what his father is talking about, marking an apartment complex with his highlighter.

“This whole thing with Erica and Boyd. Now, I know that you’re going to say you’re just worried, kids your age, you’re trying to distract yourself, et cetera. I’m fully prepared to disregard all your excuses.” He gives that a moment to sink in. “Because I know you, and there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“What do you think it is?” Stiles asks, stalling for time.

“Well,” his father says, “there have been a lot of strange things going on lately. Two serial killers in six months, which is more than the last, oh, six decades. And Matt . . . well, I won’t say it’s _impossible_ for him to do what he did, because he obviously did it, but some of those bodies were sliced up pretty badly, and he just didn’t really look physically capable of that sort of thing. And those deaths last autumn still looked more like animal maulings than anything else.”

Stiles pretends his father isn’t talking, and circles a bus station with a different color highlighter.

“But this thing with Erica and Boyd . . . it’s the timing that gets me. A hell of a lot happened that night, don’t you think? Jackson nearly getting killed on the lacrosse field, you getting beaten up, Erica and Boyd disappearing.”

“Mm,” Stiles says, trying to stay noncommittal.

“Did you see something?” his father presses. “Something you think you can’t tell me?”

Stiles just shakes his head.

Sheriff Stilinski lets out a slow breath. “Look, kid, I . . . I want you to know . . . if you’re the one who hurt Jackson that night, I wouldn’t blame you.”

“W-What?” Stiles asks, honestly taken aback.

His father gives him a steady look. “We never did figure out who injured him, you know. Everything was so chaotic, given that the power went out, and uh . . . your presence was pretty much unaccounted for during all of it. I know that you know enough about circuitry to have blown a fuse, and, well, the way you looked later, it seems like you might have been jostling with some kids on the field.”

“Jesus _Christ_ , Dad,” Stiles says, almost too surprised to protest. “I didn’t try to kill Jackson.”

“I would understand if you had,” his father says earnestly. “After what he did to you.”

“Look, Dad, if I had decided to kill Jackson I would have come up with a _much_ better plan than that. One that wouldn’t have involved several dozen possible witnesses, zero alibi, and stab wounds at random locations.”

Sheriff Stilinski frowns. “I’m not sure how comforted I am by the fact that your argument is that you would be _better_ at murder than that.”

Stiles shrugs. “Pretty much the truth, though.”

“Okay,” his father says, and rubs a hand over his head. “But I’m still not convinced that you don’t know something about what happened to Boyd and Erica. Every time I turned around during that entire investigation, it seemed like I was tripping over you. I know, I know, you’re going to say you were just trying to help me solve it. But you know what I think is funny?”

“What?” Stiles asks, his tone wary.

“These two people who gave the descriptions of the people who might be holding Erica and Boyd hostage, although for God knows what reason,” Sheriff Stilinski says. “Derek Hale and Isaac Lahey. Reported separately, from people who are not related. That’s what we call independent verification.”

“Yeah . . .” Stiles says.

“Yeah, except, although they may not be related to each other, they _are_ both connected to you,” his father says. “You were there the night Isaac escaped from the police station. And God knows you have connection enough to Derek Hale from last winter.”

Stiles winces.

“You know what else I find odd?” his father continues, and waves at the wall of photos. “They’re not up here. On your wall of evidence. You’ve got the composite sketches posted, but no details on who gave them, when, or where. Like . . . you already knew what they reported.”

“Dad, stop looking at my evidence wall,” Stiles says loudly. “You’re invading my privacy.”

Sheriff Stilinski lets out a sigh. “Okay. Answer one question for me. God knows you’ve been throwing yourself at trouble lately. Do you have any idea what it was like for me, being chained up in the police station while Matt was holding you and Scott at gunpoint? How _terrified_ I was that he would hurt you, and I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it?”

Stiles folds his arms across his stomach and looks away. “I think I know a little something about it.”

“Then just do this for me. Can you look me in the eye and tell me that you’re not in any danger?”

Stiles bites down on his lower lip. His gaze flickers up to his father, then away, as he thinks about everything Peter’s told them about the alpha pack, and the theories they have on why they’re in town or what they’re going to do. “No, Dad, I . . . I guess I can’t do that.”

Sheriff Stilinski lets out another breath. “Okay. Then we’re not leaving this room until you tell me what the _hell_ is going on.”

Stiles’ mouth works silently for a few long moments. He’s still terrified of the idea of his father knowing about what’s going on. But he has to admit that ignorance is probably just as dangerous. Would things have been different that night, if he had told his father what the kanima was capable of? Would Kendra and the others still be alive? Or would his father be dead, too?

There are no good choices, and he knows that whichever way he goes, he’ll probably have regrets. But one thing is certain: his father is five hundred percent serious. And Stiles doesn’t think he’ll be able to come up with lies that will satisfy him.

After another minute, he says, “Yeah, okay, I . . . come with me, okay? There’s someone you need to meet.”

His father frowns, but nods and stands up. “Okay. Let’s go.”

They take the cruiser. Stiles texts Derek to let them know they’re coming and the purpose of their visit. Sheriff Stilinski parks outside the loft, frowning a little at the neighborhood but not outright protesting. Stiles sits there for a minute, not getting out. “Uh,” he says. “This is, uh, this is the friend I was telling you about. That I’ve been spending some time with lately. Do me a favor and just . . . don’t mention Jackson, okay? He doesn’t know what happened to me and I want to keep it that way. It’s just . . . easier for me.”

Sheriff Stilinski nods, because there isn’t much he can do with that besides agree. He follows Stiles up the stairs at the back of the loft, watches as he raps on the metal door. Derek opens it moments later and gives them both a nod. “Stiles,” he says. “Sheriff.”

“Mr. Hale,” Sheriff Stilinski says, clearly startled. He darts a sideways glance at Stiles as if to say ‘ _this_ is who invited you up to their apartment? How old is he?’ but he doesn’t comment.

“Come in,” Derek says, standing back. He shuts the door behind them.

Sheriff Stilinski shoots another look at Stiles. “Okay,” he says, “start talking.”

“Uh, you’d better sit down,” Stiles says, ushering his father towards a chair, which gets him a skeptically raised eyebrow. “Derek, uh, who else is here? Is it just you tonight?”

Derek shakes his head a little. “Isaac’s here too. And Peter’s been lurking.”

“Great,” Stiles says, underneath his breath. Because what this conversation really needs is serial murderer number one. Maybe he can keep that from coming up. “Okay, Dad. Okay. Uh. Werewolves.”

“I beg your pardon?” Sheriff Stilinski says.

“Werewolves. Are real. And Beacon Hills has a werewolf problem, and that’s why such weird shit has been going down.”

“Stiles, for the love of _holy shit_ ,” Sheriff Stilinski says, because at that point, Derek shifts to prove the point. The sheriff nearly falls out of his chair.

“It isn’t a werewolf _problem_ ,” Peter remarks acerbically, coming down the spiral staircase. “That makes it sound like we’re some sort of infestation.”

Stiles thinks of several decent comebacks, but shelves them, because his father looks like he might actually have a stroke. “Dad?” he says cautiously. “Dad, I know it’s a lot to take in, but calm down and Jesus Christ don’t go for your gun, Derek’s not a bad guy, he’s just a werewolf, it’s totally cool, if you want to shoot someone, shoot Peter.”

Peter looks offended. Sheriff Stilinski doesn’t notice. Stiles has to have him sit with his head down for several long minutes while he internally argues with reality. Finally, he takes a deep breath and looks up. He’s only barely able to look at Derek’s wolfed-out features before cringing, not in a frightened way, but in an ‘I can’t believe I’m seeing this’ sort of way.

Then what Stiles said clicks. “Peter,” he says. “Peter Hale?”

“The one and only,” Peter says.

“You’ve been missing since you left the hospital,” Sheriff Stilinski says.

Peter shrugs. “It’s amazing what a good haircut and a fake identity can do.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, a little more loudly than necessary. “So. The salient points. Derek,” he says, with a gesture, “is the alpha in this territory. That means he’s like the head honcho, in charge of all the werewolfy business. These other werewolves decided to come to Beacon Hills and stir shit up, and we think they took two of Derek’s pack members, Erica and Boyd, as leverage, or some shit like that.”

Sheriff Stilinski rubs a hand over his face. “Start at the beginning.”

Stiles looks at Derek. Then he looks at Peter. “Uh . . .”

“Go ahead,” Derek says with a nod.

Peter shrugs. “I don’t care if you tell him.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. He takes a minute to sum up his thoughts. Then he starts at the beginning. Laura’s body, in the woods. Scott’s encounter with Peter. Their first meetings with Derek. The murders.

Before five minutes has gone by, Sheriff Stilinski says, “Wait, wait. Am I to understand that all the murders we thought were committed by Kate Argent were actually committed by Peter Hale?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Pretty much.”

“So . . . explain to me why I’m not arresting him.”

“Uh . . .” Stiles says, as Peter gives one of those epic Hale eyerolls. “Primarily because you can’t prove anything; secondarily because a jail cell wouldn’t hold him for an hour. Better to just let that one go, Dad.” He sees the way his father is still frowning and hastens onward. To be fair, he doesn’t really blame Peter for killing the people who murdered his family, although his methods certainly left a lot to be desired. He summarizes as much as possible, trying to steer clear of a lot of detail. His father looks really, really unhappy to hear about how Jackson had been the kanima, and Stiles skims by it as much as possible. “So we’ve spent the last couple months trying to figure out what Deucalion wants and where he might be stashing Erica and Boyd, but we really haven’t gotten much of anywhere.”

There’s a long silence while the Sheriff files things away. He had started taking notes as soon as they got into recent events, and Stiles feels a well of pride for his father, the best detective he knows. “Okay, well, I assume if you had gotten a ransom note or anything like that, you would have mentioned it,” he says.

Derek nods. “There’s been no contact with them at all. In fact, until you got some tips from civilians about seeing Deucalion in town, we weren’t even one hundred percent sure they were here. All we had to go on was the pack symbol they left on the door.”

The sheriff rubs a hand through his hair. “How sure are we that this tip from San Francisco was actually planted by them?”

“It’s impossible to be sure,” Derek says with a shrug.

“No, but the timing is suspect.” Peter gets a beer and sits down at the kitchen table. “Since then, there have been no sightings of Deucalion or Kali around town. Which implies that they know they’re being looked for.”

“Look, uh . . . it can’t be easy to hold a . . . a werewolf, right?” Sheriff Stilinski grimaces on the word, but forces it out. “Like you were saying, Peter would be able to break out of a jail cell, and Isaac did that one time, too. So they can’t be just anywhere.”

“They would need a secure location,” Stiles agrees with a nod, “but there _are_ methods that can help. Like, uh, voltage. Electricity will render a werewolf immobile and unable to shift. I’m not saying that’s what they _are_ doing, but if it is, Erica and Boyd could be in some dude’s garage for all we know.”

“Well, the first thing to do is see if they’ve got any property in the area,” Sheriff Stilinski says, standing up.

“Without a last name, how do you intend to do that?” Peter says, quirking an eyebrow. He’s got that ‘how cute, the civilian thinks he can keep up with us’ tone to his voice.

Sheriff Stilinski shuts him down immediately. “What makes you think I don’t have a last name?” he asks, and then nods to Derek. “I’ll keep you posted, Mr. Hale,” he says, and heads for the door.

Stiles is grinning outright, and he waves at Derek as he trots along on his father’s heels. He waits until they’re back in the car to say, “Okay, did you say that just to fuck with Peter, or do you _actually_ have his name?”

His father smiles slightly and says, “I have _a_ name.”

Stiles flails and says, “C’mon, spill!”

“Okay,” his father says. “Peter’s story about the alpha pack rings some bells. I remember when Ennis came in to claim the body.”

“Right, I figured you would,” Stiles says. “That’s why we didn’t give a composite of him.”

“Because you were hiding things from me,” Stilinski says, giving his son a sideways glance. Stiles lifts his hands in surrender. “But okay. As it happens, when it became clear that the victim had no family, Ennis _was_ allowed to see the remains and give a positive ID. As such, there’s paperwork he would have signed. All we have to do is go find it. Now, from the way it was described, Ennis is more the brawn than the brains of the operation, but it’s at least a place to start.”

Stiles nods. “Yeah, running his records might get us Deucalion or Kali’s last name.”

“Exactly,” his father says.

After a long pause, Stiles lets out a breath. “I’m . . . glad I told you,” he says. “I wanted to. I mean. I was just afraid of what might happen to you.”

Sheriff Stilinski shakes his head a little and says, “You should’ve known better than to think I would have ever been happier being kept in the dark. But . . . it’s a lot to deal with, especially coming on top of the whole Jackson thing. And I know that you were trying to protect Scott, and God knows I can forgive you for thinking that I wouldn’t believe you. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes . . .” His voice trails off. “I think you did the best you could, kid.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says.

“But you know I have to ask . . .”

Stiles swallows. “I didn’t lie, Dad. I used the opportunity when we had Jackson in the van to try to get him to tell me where he had the photos. He wouldn’t. Yeah, it was also because of kanima-related reasons – otherwise Scott and Allison wouldn’t have gone along with it. But when I told you about why I had come up with it, that was the truth. It just didn’t work out.”

His father nods a little. “And I assume that him being a werewolf in the end has something to do with why you didn’t want to press charges?”

“There were a _lot_ of reasons I didn’t want to press charges, most of them beginning and ending with the idea of having to get up on a witness stand and tell a jury of my peers about what he did to me, but the fact that a jail cell couldn’t hold him played into it, yeah.”

Sheriff Stilinski grimaces a little, but then nods. “Okay. I guess that makes sense to me.”

Stiles can’t think of anything to say to that, so he keeps his mouth shut.

They drive in silence for a few minutes. “So,” Sheriff Stilinski finally says. “Derek Hale.”

“Mm hm,” Stiles says.

“Not who I would have expected.”

Stiles shrugs a little. “We argued a lot in the beginning, he was a gigantic jerk, he threatened me a lot, but . . . I think maybe he did the best he could, too. And he’s had my back, when I’ve needed him to.”

“Well, I’m glad,” the sheriff says. “That there’s been someone you can count on.”

“It’s kinda stupid, right?” Stiles says. “I mean, hanging out with him all the time. But I told him to let me know if I was bothering him. I think maybe he’s just lonely. And I like going over there. He makes me feel safe.”

It’s not until he speaks the words out loud that he actually really comprehends them, and realizes that it’s true, and more than that, that it’s important. In a world of monsters both human and inhuman, Derek is the person that makes Stiles feel safe. Both physically and emotionally.

His father gives him another glance, then just reaches over and tousles his hair without another word. They drive the rest of the way home in silence.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little short, yet still somehow feels like it has a lot in it. Hm.... a temporal anomaly.

 

Three days later, Stiles is sitting around Derek’s loft with stacks of paper that he got from his father. Phone records, financial records, criminal records. All of it on one Ennis Blackfeather. They still haven’t been able to get Deucalion’s last name. He’s curiously absent from any records. But they did find Kali’s last name and driver’s license, so now they’ve got reams of records on her as well.

“Do you have to do that here?” Derek asks, as Stiles puts up a bulletin board and starts connecting mysterious deaths with lines of red thread.

“Here is where I happen to be,” Stiles replies.

“It’s just . . . morbid,” Derek says.

“I’ll bring it home with me at the end of the day if you don’t want to have to look at it,” Stiles says. “Seriously, though, both Ennis and Kali were suspects in multiple deaths. Right around the same time, too. About three to four months after the whole thing with Deucalion and Gerard. One of the first of Beacon Hills’ many murder sprees.”

Derek rubs a hand over his face. “Just tell me what it means.”

“You’re a terrible detective, you know that?” Stiles says. “I mean, how long did it take you to figure out who the kanima was?” He returns Derek’s glare with an innocent look. “Impatience, that’s your problem. I can see it now, in your bulging arm muscles.”

“Stiles,” Derek growls. “The point.”

“I’m not sure of the point yet,” Stiles says. “The most obvious explanation is that these guys are hunters, so Kali and Ennis killed a bunch of them. But I don’t know anything for sure.”

“Either way, it doesn’t get us any closer to finding Erica and Boyd,” Derek says, pacing around the loft.

“Nope.” Stiles rubs a hand over his face and dives back into the most recent records. But there’s nothing past about six months previous. “You know, I find it interesting that Deucalion chose to try to divert the police rather than simply move. Territory thing?”

Derek shakes his head a little. “Shouldn’t be. He doesn’t have any claim here.”

“So either he’s particular about where he lives, or thinks it would have been dangerous to try to move Erica and Boyd . . .” Stiles’ voice trails off and he continues to wade through the paperwork. Minutes drag by and turn into hours. He feels a headache building behind his eyes. Derek is alternately pacing around and pretending to read, his entire body tense, like a coiled spring, waiting for Stiles to find some miracle.

Finally, just past three, Stiles tosses the papers aside and says, “You wanna get out of here?”

“Jesus, yes,” Derek says. “C’mon, I’ll drive.”

He locks up the loft and they go down to the Camaro. Derek gets behind the wheel and they just drive for a while. The windows are down and he puts The Rolling Stones on the stereo. Stiles watches the scenery roll by and just mellows out for a while, letting the warm air and the music relax him. He thinks that they could just drive like this for hours and he could be content.

About an hour has passed before the road curves and he sees the ocean. He stares out at it for a little while as the road winds and twists and it comes in and out of view.

“You want to hit the beach?” Derek asks.

“Sure,” Stiles says.

They wind up in this little seaside town with a boardwalk. His stomach is growling, so they get tacos and eat sitting on benches, watching the waves crash on the shore. Then they hit the arcade. Stiles kicks Derek’s ass at every video game, where Derek pummels him at anything requiring physical skill. Between the two of them, they compile a massive amount of tickets.

“You should get me one of those ridiculously huge stuffed animals,” Stiles says. He’s completely joking, which is why he winds up holding a gigantic stuffed unicorn a few minutes later. Derek ignores all his protests and drags him back to the car so they don’t have to lug it around with them.

They play air hockey and ride the tiny Ferris wheel and roller coaster that the park sports. Everywhere they go, Derek and his tank top are followed by admiring glances, but he seems oblivious to them. Stiles even tries his flirting skills on a couple of girls who are between their ages, to see what Derek will do, but he seems completely uninterested. To be fair, so do the girls.

As the sun is starting to set, they get some ice cream and sit on the beach, just watching the sun and the waves and not talking. It’s the most relaxed he’s been in weeks, even if he has no idea if they’re on a date or what. He doesn’t want to know. He’s okay with things just as they are. And he thinks that Derek is, too. The werewolf has finally stopped frowning. The little lines on his forehead and around his eyes are gone.

It’s a long drive back to Beacon Hills. They trade out The Rolling Stones for The Who, and then U2 as they’re driving back into town.

As Derek pulls back into the loft parking lot, he glances at the clock. It’s past ten. “Do you want to . . . I just got a box set of Kurosawa movies.”

“Oh, _hell_ yes,” Stiles says happily. “I knew you had to be spending your money on something.”

Derek almost cracks another smile at that. “Seven Samurai?”

“Throne of Blood,” Stiles says. “ _Then_ Seven Samurai. And then Yojimbo. But we’ll need popcorn. Absolutely.”

“Sure.” Derek pulls back out of the parking lot and heads for the grocery store on the corner.

While he’s driving, Stiles takes out his phone and calls his father. “Hey, Dad? I think I’m gonna stay the night at Derek’s. We’ve got some movies to watch and stuff.”

“Everything okay?” his father asks.

“Yeah, fine. Really.”

“Okay. I’m working night shift anyway. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you,” Stiles says, and tucks his phone away. By now, Derek has parked, and they head into the grocery store. It’s late, but there are still plenty of people there. Stiles realizes he has no idea what day it is. Probably a Friday or a Saturday, given the crowded store and the fact that his father is working night shift.

He and Derek quibble over snacks for a few minutes before going up to the front with their purchases. The cashier is classmate of Stiles’. She looks between Stiles and Derek before offering them a wide smirk. “Date night?” she asks innocently. Derek just gives her one of his trademark creeper stares. This doesn’t faze her. She scans their soda, popcorn, and chips. “Hey, Stiles, leave some for the rest of us, huh?”

Derek’s frowning a little as he swipes his card to pay. The cashier glances at the screen to catch his name. As Stiles grabs the bags and tries to flee, she calls out after them, “Be gentle with him, Derek!”

“Fuck,” Stiles mutters as he gets back into the Camaro.

“What was all that about?” Derek asks.

“Nothing, just, you know,” Stiles says. “Apparently my lack of game is something of a joke with my classmates. No big.” He sees that Derek is frowning a little, and he doesn’t want to see that expression return to his face, nor does he want to discuss what’s going on, so he hastily turns the subject back to Kurosawa’s movies. Derek lets it go without further commentary.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“Hey, you,” Sheriff Stilinski says, glancing up as Stiles comes through the door, yawning widely. “Have a good time?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Actually.”

“You awake enough for some news?”

Stiles frowns a little, sees the serious expression on his father’s face, and steels his nerves. “Oh, geez, I won’t sleep _now_ ,” he says. “But actually I am pretty awake. Just let me get some coffee.” He doesn’t want to mention that he actually got nearly eight full hours of sleep. Somewhere in the middle of Yojimbo, probably around four AM, he had conked out, sprawled across Derek’s lap. He hadn’t woken until the sunlight had hit the windows of the loft and shined into his eyes. Derek had still been asleep, too, slumped over the arm of the sofa, relaxed and _comfortable_ with Stiles draped across him like a rug.

Stiles doesn’t want to talk about that because he doesn’t know how he feels about it, how he feels about _any_ of this stuff with Derek. It’s just too complicated, and he doesn’t want to think about the fact that he finally got a decent night’s sleep, without bad dreams or panic attacks in the middle of the night. He and Derek are friends, and that’s not something he wants to risk screwing up right now. He doesn’t think he could handle it if he lost that.

So he just gets himself some coffee and then heads back out to where his father has some papers spread across the kitchen table. “What’s up?”

Sheriff Stilinski pushes a thin folder across the table. “Gerard Argent is alive.”

It’s not exactly a surprise, given all the givens, but it still hits Stiles like a punch in the gut. “Fuck,” he says, and for once his father doesn’t say anything about his language. “I didn’t even know you were looking for him.”

“It seemed like it was worth looking into,” his father says. “His body was never found. It was possible that was because Chris Argent had killed him and disposed of the body, but to me it seemed more likely that he had survived. All I had to do was look into the Argent’s financials to find him.”

“How’d you get a warrant for that?” Stiles asks, taking a drink of his coffee and sitting down across from his father.

“Simple. I filed a missing persons report for him,” the sheriff says. “Anyway, he’s checked into an assisted living facility on the north side of town under a fake name. Not that I know what to do about it. We don’t actually have any evidence that he committed a crime.”

Stiles thinks back. Gerard had done so many terrible things, it seems like there has to be something that they can pin on him, but he can’t think of anything. All the Argent lackeys seem to be gone, there’s nobody that they could try to bribe or compel to testify against him. In the matter of his assault on Stiles, it would be his word against Gerard’s. There was no physical evidence in either that incident or the fact that he had murdered Matt Daehler. And there was no conceivable motive in anything he had done unless one took the supernatural events into account.

He sighs and pushes a hand through his hair. “Okay, yeah, let me think about it,” he says. “I mean, I see the problem. I just don’t feel right letting him get away with all this shit. I guess if he’s using Argent family money, Chris must know, right?”

His father gives a little nod. “Chris is listed as his emergency contact, for that matter. He signed the paperwork when Gerard was admitted.”

Stiles’ jaw tightens. He supposes he can’t blame Chris for not killing his father in retaliation, but the man had tried to kill all of them, including Allison. He feels like there should have been a step between ‘murder’ and ‘checking him into a cushy assisted living facility’, like ‘leaving him to die of black goo exsanguination in the forest’ that Chris should have taken. He leafs through the medical reports in the file and is somewhat mollified to see that Gerard is still having a lot of trouble with said black goo, and rates his pain as at least a seven or eight every day. “Better than nothing,” he mutters.

“Well,” Sheriff Stilinski says, with a glint in his eye, “I have half a mind to go down there and have a little chat with him about what he did to you that night.”

Stiles grimaces. “Can I ask you not to do that? It might benefit us later for him not to know that we realize he’s alive. I don’t know, but . . . at least until this whole thing with Erica and Boyd is taken care of and we see how everything shakes out.”

His father narrows his eyes, but then sighs and says, “Okay. Until then, at least. But one way or another, we’re going to have to deal with him. I don’t like him being here.”

“Trust me, on that score you’re not alone,” Stiles says.

He tosses and turns that night, wondering how to explain to Derek that Gerard is still alive and in Beacon Hills. He thinks about just not mentioning it at all, but he knows that he has to. Derek’s trust has been broken so many times in his life. Stiles doesn’t want to lose the trust he’s gained, and that means that he can’t lie, not even a lie of omission.

So he just opens up with it the next day, without trying to cushion it. “So, my dad found Gerard,” he says. Derek glances at him and then just gives him a little nod, and Stiles realizes that this comes as no surprise to him. Derek had always assumed that Gerard was still alive, because nothing ever goes right for him. Of _course_ Gerard is still alive. “He’s in an old folks home. I talked Dad into leaving him where he is for the moment. We might be able to use him as some sort of bargaining chip with Deucalion and the alphas.”

“Okay,” Derek says.

“He’s in lots of pain,” Stiles says brightly, and sees Derek’s lips twitch into what passes for a smile from the werewolf. “Complains about it every day. What a baby.”

Derek shakes his head a little. “It’ll have to do,” he says.

“Yeah, that’s basically what I said,” Stiles says. “Great minds think alike.”

Derek arches an eyebrow. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult,” he says. Stiles thinks about his reply for a few minutes, then, with all due respect, blows a raspberry at him.

“Oh, hey, so, I was thinking,” he adds, since they seem to be done discussing Gerard for the moment, “we should really do a protection spell around the loft. I mean, I know you’re not exactly in the phone book, but I don’t think it would be hard for Deucalion to figure out where you live, you know? And I’m not a huge fan of the idea of him showing up on the doorstep.”

Derek’s jaw sets in an angry expression, but then he nods. “What do you have in mind?”

“I was reading in, uh . . .” Stiles fumbles around in his backpack and pulls out a gigantic tome that he had liberated from Deaton’s office. He’s pretty sure that Deaton knows he had stolen a bunch of his stuff, and finds it interesting that the veterinarian hadn’t said anything about it. “Uh, here it is. The five-point protection spell. We need some white candles, some sage, some salt . . . and a hair from anyone you want to be able to come and go freely. So that’s you, me, Isaac . . . Lydia and my dad okay?”

“Yeah.” Derek nods. “And Peter.”

Stiles shuts the book. “If you want,” he says, careful to keep his voice neutral.

Derek looks away. “If Peter wanted to kill me to take the alpha power back, he would have done it already.”

Since this is probably true, Stiles nods. “I’ll go get what we need. I talked to my dad and Lydia about it already. You want to get a hair from Isaac and Peter and then we can get it done.”

“Okay.” Derek studies him for a moment. “You’re getting good at this magic stuff.”

Stiles shrugs. “I guess? But it’s not like it’s hard. I mean, you just follow the directions. It’s all ritual and shit.” He sees the way Derek is looking at him. “What?”

“Nothing, I just . . .” Derek scowls at him. “You say that like it’s not a big deal. It _is_ a big deal. You shouldn’t just disregard it and put yourself down so easily.”

Stiles stares at him with his jaw ajar for a moment, then looks away and rubs a hand over his hair. “Wow, uh, okay. Yeah. I mean, I guess it does say something about my life that I’m at the point where I’m just like ‘oh, magic, no biggie’. I’ll just . . . go get some white candles now and we can stop talking about this before I die of embarrassment, okay?”

Derek nods, looking just as embarrassed, his cheeks flushed faintly pink. “Okay.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Two days later, Derek is watching in some confusion as Lydia is showing Stiles a bunch of complicated equations she’s been doing. The math has something to do with the various sightings of Deucalion and where it’s more probable that he’s living. The word ‘algorithm’ has been used more than once, and it’s clear to Stiles that Derek has no idea what Lydia is talking about. To be fair, he only understands about a third of it himself.

“Did you go to college?” he asks Derek curiously.

“No,” Derek says. “I never even finished high school.” He gives a little shrug and adds, “I have my GED, but that’s it.”

Peter says something uncomplimentary underneath his breath. Stiles and Lydia don’t catch it, but Derek gives his uncle an annoyed look.

“Look, I’m pretty sure that no amount of school is gonna help any of us understand what the hell Lydia is talking about,” Isaac says.

“I understand it,” Peter says.

“Would you like to do the equations?” Lydia asks, smiling brightly at him.

“Of course not. I’m enjoying watching you work.”

Lydia gives him a somewhat narrow eyed look before turning back to what she’s doing. Stiles finds himself wondering if Peter’s next cup of coffee is going to be spiked with wolfsbane. He certainly wouldn’t argue if it was.

Another ten minutes of amiable bickering passes before Derek’s phone chimes. He finishes the instructions he’s giving to Isaac before fishing it out to see who’s texting him. A faint frown crosses his face. “Stiles, why the hell is someone sending me a picture of you naked?”

Stiles fumbles the book he’s holding and it hits the floor with a thud. Everyone looks over at him, even Peter. Then Derek’s phone chimes again.

Stiles doesn’t wait to see what the second photograph is going to be. From Derek’s reaction, the first must have been one of the milder ones, after everything had been finished. He doubts that that’s all they plan on sending. So he bolts. Just grabs his bag and runs. He hears Derek make a startled noise behind him, but he doesn’t look back.

He’s down the stairs and in his car before a full minute has passed, on the road another twelve seconds later. He just drives, not allowing himself to think about what just happened, not allowing himself to feel anything about it. The main drag takes him out of town.

Like the night he had first told his father what happened, he drives without purpose or direction. He just wants to get _away_. As soon as he stops, he’s going to start thinking about the fact that there’s no safe place left for him. Nobody he’ll be able to talk to without the elephant in the room. No way that things will ever be the same for him and Derek, for them to be able to enjoy that easy companionship without complications. He doesn’t know how Derek will react to the story, whether the next time he sees Derek, whether the werewolf will look at him with pity or disgust. He doesn’t want to know.

He has to pull over because he can’t breathe. His hands are shaking so badly that he can barely hold the wheel. He huddles in the driver’s seat, hyperventilating, pushing his hands through his hair and tugging on it in an effort to calm himself down.

Gradually, the worst of it passes. But this time he can’t bring himself to go back. The thought of it makes him want to be sick to his stomach. Maybe someday he’ll be able to face up to it, but not now.

After what feels like a long time, he takes out his phone and calls his father. The call goes to voice mail, as it usually does when his father’s working. This brings him nothing but relief.

“Hey, uh . . . hey Dad,” he says to the mailbox. “I have to . . . I have to get out of here for a bit. Just a few days. I can’t . . . can’t take the way people look at me anymore. I just . . . I have to go somewhere that people don’t know me. I’m sorry if I . . . I just can’t for a little while. I need a break. I’ll be okay. I won’t do anything stupid, I promise. I just . . . I’m just sorry. I’ll call you later. Love you.”

He hangs up and pulls the car back onto the road. He has no missed messages, which somewhat surprises him, but he guesses that the others just didn’t know what to say.

It takes him a while, but eventually, he pulls back onto the road. He remembers the peace and safety he felt in the anonymity of the city, and heads south. It’s not a short drive, and the sun is setting by the time he gets there. He pulls into the parking lot of a small motel on the outskirts of the city. The clerk gives his fake ID a disinterested glance and gives him a room key.

Once he’s inside, he checks his phone and sees that he has a message from his father. With some apprehension, he goes into his voice mail.

“Hey, kid,” his father says. He sounds a little tired, voice rougher than usual. “Got your message. I just wanted to say . . . you do what you need to do, in order to be okay. But be safe, okay? I’ve put some money in your account. Not a lot, but it’s what we can spare right now. Don’t sleep in your car. Take care of yourself. And just . . . come home when you’re ready. Call me if you need anything. I know you probably don’t want to talk right now, so I’ll just let your calls go to voice mail unless you text and tell me to pick up.” There’s a long pause. “I love you, kiddo. I’ll see you soon.”

Stiles puts the phone down, then flops onto the bed facedown. The first sob takes him off guard, clawing its way out of his throat with force he couldn’t anticipate. He finds himself curled up around the pillow, crying until his chest hurts and his head aches.

The worst of it eventually passes. He stares at the wall and takes slow breaths, trying to put himself back together. He realizes that he’s exhausted. He doesn’t even bother to change, but just kicks off his shoes, rolls over, and turns out the light.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omggggg this chapter is so short, honestly, I think of it more as an interlude between the two halves of the story, but still, sorry
> 
> After the end of the last chapter I figured a short chapter sooner was better than a long chapter that you had to wait for longer. ^_~

Stiles sleeps late, and wakes up feeling sluggish and disoriented. He staggers through the dim hotel room to use the bathroom. He’s starving, but the idea of leaving the hotel room is terrifying. Only the fact that his father had told him to take care of himself gets him up and moving.

Since he had left with nothing but the clothes on his back and the few things he had in his bag – his laptop, fortunately, a few books, a pack of gum, his Adderall, and some loose change – he starts at a Wal-Mart. He buys himself a pack of T-shirts, boxers, and socks. He doesn’t want to waste money on a second pair of jeans. He’ll just have to wear these until they get so dirty that they can walk on their own.

He adds a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, and a hairbrush. He can go without shaving for a while. Then he grabs a twelve-pack of Mountain Dew, a couple boxes of crackers, a jar of peanut butter, and a bag of oranges. The Wal-Mart has a Subway at the front, so he gets himself a turkey foot long and brings it back to the hotel. That’s quite enough for one day.

He calls his father. As promised, it goes to voice mail, so he says, “Hey, it’s me. Just wanted to let you know, I’m in San Francisco. It’s nice here. I can walk around without people staring at me. I have, uh, I have a hotel room and some food, I’m okay. Just gonna hole up and marathon Red Dwarf on Netflix. Thanks for, uh, thanks for everything. Love you.”

After hanging up, he sees that he has a missed call from Derek and a voice mail. He quails inwardly, and thinks about listening to it later, when he might be up to it, but he knows that he’ll just go insane wondering about the contents. So he puts it on.

Like his father, Derek sounds a little tired, and he’s not his usual terse self. “Hey, uh . . . Lydia told me what happened. Not details or anything, I mean, she didn’t tell me who, she just . . . gave me the basics. I just wanted to let you know . . . I let her delete the other texts without opening them. So I only saw the one picture. I mean. Not that it probably matters to you. I just . . . please let me know you’re okay, if you can. We don’t have to talk about it, I know you won’t want to and I can respect that, I just want to know that you’re all right.”

He hangs up without saying goodbye. Stiles stares at the phone for a long minute, chewing on his lower lip. He doesn’t want to talk, but he understands that Derek just wants to know that he’s breathing. He’s pack now, and he thinks that comes with instincts and impulses that he can’t fully understand. And Derek is his friend. He doesn’t want to leave him worrying.

So he sends a quick text that reads, ‘am ok. Just needed a break. Chillin in the city. Will come back when I’m ready.’

He doesn’t really want to know if he’s going to get an answer to that, so he sits down with his sandwich and takes out his laptop, resolving not to leave the hotel room the entire day if he doesn’t have to.

And he doesn’t have to. He takes his Adderall and watches TV and surfs the internet and determinedly doesn’t think about any of his problems. When he gets hungry again, he orders pizza. Then he takes a shower and goes to bed. It was a day that was wholly relaxing and yet somehow damnably depressing.

He sleeps restlessly, and upon waking the next morning, he knows he can’t spend the entire day inside again. He’ll lose his mind. The weather is nice, sunny and in the eighties. He pulls on one of his new T-shirts and his dirty jeans and heads for the beach. It’s crowded, of course, being the middle of the summer, but he doesn’t let that bother him. He just starts at one end and keeps walking.

There’s hardly anybody in the water, which surprises him, but when he dips his toes in, he finds it’s very cold. There are signs up in places about the dangers of undertow, so he stays in the shallows. Stiles walks through the waves as if he’s in a dream, and nobody looks twice at him. When the beach is broken up by rocks, he just climbs over them and keeps walking. He does it for hours, barely aware of what he’s doing.

Finally, his hunger drives him inwards. He winds up walking the streets of San Francisco in his sopping jeans and the cheap flip flops he bought at Wal-Mart. The smell of spices draws him towards a taco stand, and he gets something to eat. Then he starts walking again.

It’s not like he’s invisible. He’s actually stopped several times. A nice Japanese couple ask him for directions which he can’t provide. A hobo who looks like she’s on the crazier side of normal asks him for change. He gives her his last taco, which seems acceptable to her. Someone who bumps into him gives him a dirty look and asks why he’s soaking wet.

“Free country, isn’t it?” Stiles responds, and the guy flips him off.

The ability to just walk the streets and be a nobody is incredible. He feels an enormous weight rolling off his chest. He may never be able to do it in Beacon Hills anymore, but there are still places where he can be himself.

He eats dinner at a noodle bar and then goes to see a movie. By the time it’s over, he’s stiff and sore from all the walking. It doesn’t bother him. He stops at a pharmacy and buys some ibuprofen and goes back to the hotel. He sees that he has two messages, one from his father and one from Derek, and pulls them up with less anxiety than earlier.

His father’s is short and sweet. “Just checking in. Give me a call to let me know how you’re doing.”

The one from Derek is a little longer. “Hey. Thought I would give you an update. Lydia’s math stuff didn’t work out. She says she doesn’t have a big enough data pool. Thought you would want to know. Isaac’s staking out some of the more likely areas anyway. Alphas can hide their scent, so unless he sees something, it won’t matter, but he wanted to give it a try.

“I talked to your Dad. He told me you were in San Francisco. Laura and I actually lived there for a year while we were moving around a lot. I thought I would give you some suggestions. There’s a lot of cool stuff to do in the city, even if you don’t have a lot of money. You should hit the library. I know that sounds boring, but when you’re from a little town like Beacon Hills, you probably don’t have any idea how awesome a big city library can be. I could spend days there. I bet you could too.

“In Golden Gate Park, there’s a lot of flower gardens and the arboretum and everything. A lot of the museums have a free day each month, there’s a schedule online and stuff. Be careful if you swim. The undertow is really strong on a lot of the San Francisco beaches. But, uh, let me know if you need money, okay? You know that I have plenty.

“That, uh, that’s it, I guess. I’ll see you soon, I hope.”

He sleeps better that night, fewer nightmares.

The next day, he goes to the library. It’s everything Derek said it was, both gorgeous architecturally and jammed full of more books than he could read in a lifetime. He spends the entire day there, just walking through the stacks or curled up with some of the more interesting looking books.

Nearly a full week passes like that. During the day, he either walks the streets or settles down in one of the parks or libraries to read. Sometimes he goes to a museum, but he tries to use his money sparingly. He doesn’t want to have to ask Derek for any, even though he knows that the werewolf would be willing to provide it.

Derek leaves him a message every night, updating him on the search for Erica and Boyd even though there’s never any progress, and sometimes suggesting some activity or restaurant. Stiles texts him a few times. Short messages that don’t invite conversation like, ‘went to the library today. It was nice.’ Derek never replies to those texts, seeming to sense that Stiles doesn’t want him to.

A curious thing starts to happen. Every day, he feels a little better, a little lighter, less prone to the panic attacks or the miasma of depression that had been consuming his life. But at the same time, every day, the thought of going back to Beacon Hills gets a little worse. The idea of going back to the life he had there, where everyone stared at him or giggled behind his back, becomes unbearable.

Not that there’s really anything else he can do. He’s going to be out of money soon, and out of Adderall sooner. He can’t just run away from things forever.

But on an impulse, he calls his father. He gets the voicemail, and remembers that he has to text him and tell him to pick up, so he does. As soon as he has the return text, he calls again. “Hey,” his father says. “How are you doing?”

“I’m okay,” Stiles says. “Hey, uh . . . can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” his father says. “Anything.”

“Would you . . . move out of Beacon Hills? If I needed you to?”

There isn’t even the slightest pause. “Of course. Sure. If that’s what you needed.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Thanks. I just wanted to know.”

Now there’s a pause. Somewhat more hesitantly, his father says, “Should I start making that sort of arrangement?”

“I . . . I don’t know, Dad. Give me a few days to think about it.”

“Okay,” his father says.

“I gotta go,” Stiles says, and hangs up without another word. He stares out at the ocean for a while. He doesn’t want to leave his friends. He knows that they need him . . . or do they? Has he ever _really_ helped things for Scott or Derek? It seems like all he ever does is get kidnapped and/or roughed up. He’s been trying all summer to help find Erica and Boyd, and they’ve still got exactly nothing to show for it.

He walks around the beach for a little while, lost in thought even though he’s fairly sure he would be happier not thinking.

Much later that night, he sits down with his phone and sees that he has his usual message from Derek, so he pulls it up.

“Hey.” Derek sounds tired, his voice softer than usual. “I miss you. I don’t know if you know that. I’m not trying to pressure you or anything, I just wanted you to know that . . . I miss you. But I’ll understand if you never come back. I will.

“When I was fifteen,” Derek continues, “I had this super hot substitute teacher in school. The lady who taught history was on maternity leave. History wasn’t really my best subject – actually to be fair, school work in general wasn’t my best subject – and I wound up staying after to get some extra tutoring. And Katie – the teacher – she was just . . . everything a fifteen year old boy dreams about. She would sit next to me at the table and her leg would touch mine and it’s amazing that I stayed conscious, let alone learned anything about history.

“I didn’t have a lot of friends back then. It’s hard to make friends when you can’t have them over at your house, can’t explain why you’re so different from everyone else. I thought Katie hung the moon. I was just so . . . naïve back then. And every now and then she would drop this comment like she ‘didn’t know why she was attracted to a kid like me’ or she thought all her friends would make fun of her. I became desperate to impress her. I did anything she asked me to, even though . . . sometimes it would make me uncomfortable. Like . . . she never wanted me to talk, when we were in bed together. She said it ‘ruined’ it.

“Anyway . . . by the time three months went by, I was pretty much wrapped around her little finger. Now that I’m older, I can look back on it and see all the ways she manipulated me, but I was just a stupid kid back then. I didn’t get it. And I wouldn’t have wanted it. If someone had tried to sit me down and explain what she was doing to me, I would have called them a liar. Because I was so in love with her. I would have done anything she wanted.

“It didn’t seem like a big deal when she asked me to leave some of my clothes at her place. Worn ones. She said she liked the way I smelled. And she did . . . she put them on, dressed herself in my scent, and set the house on fire. Because Katie was Kate Argent.” Derek’s voice chokes a little. “And she never would have been able to hurt my family if I hadn’t helped her.”

There’s a long silence in the message. Stiles just sits on the bed in his hotel room, stunned, almost unable to comprehend it.

“I’ve never told anyone that,” Derek finally says. “Not even Laura. I just . . . hated myself so much, blamed myself for everything. Looking back on it, it’s so easy to see the way she played me that I always felt like I should have been able to see it at the time. But I didn’t. She just crawled right into my head and maybe . . . maybe she never left.

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now,” Derek continues. “But I know . . . what it’s like to face each morning with dread, to not want to look anyone in the eye, to just want to hide from the world until everyone goes away. And I thought that maybe . . . maybe telling you this would help you . . . be okay with seeing me again. Because I won’t look at you differently. I won’t. What happened to you wasn’t your fault, and it doesn’t make you weak, or pathetic, or guilty.

“I want to see you again. When you’re ready. Whether that’s tomorrow or in a year or ten years. I’ll wait until you can face the world again. Because I know how hard it can be.”

There’s a long silence, and then Derek just says, “Bye,” and the message ends.

Stiles flops over and curls up around the phone, holding it to his chest like it’s something precious. He can’t imagine what it’s been like for Derek, living with that weight on his shoulders for so many years. It’s amazing that he hasn’t folded underneath it. But Derek is strong, in his own way. Even if living was just his way of continuing to punish himself, he had still done it. Still faced every day and kept going with willpower that seems insane to Stiles.

“Thank you,” he whispers to his phone. Now he thinks he can go home. It won’t be easy, and he’ll have to take a few days to think about his re-entry strategy and what he wants to say to people. But he can do it. He knows that now. It doesn’t matter what the assholes in Beacon Hills think of him, as long as he still has his friends.

He sends his father a quick text that reads, ‘Will be home in a few days. You don’t need to start packing. I’ll be okay.’

He eats leftover Chinese food, watches TV, and goes to sleep.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple notes on this chapter. ^_^
> 
> 1) I am still not sure of the timing or specifics or the *anything* that happened in early 3A, if we're going to be honest. I'm probably screwing up here - when Erica asked about what happens to a wolf during the eclipse, that's because one was about to happen, right? Not just the one that happened at the end of 3A? IDEK - anyway, let's just say I took some 'creative liberties' with the 'Erica and Boyd are in a vault' storyline.
> 
> 2) Crazy coincidences happen all the time, right? =D
> 
> 3) I'm also taking some liberties with werewolves in general, because... let's face it, some of Teen Wolf just a) isn't explained very well, or b) doesn't make sense.
> 
> 4) Scott as the Old Spice Alpha commercial should be credited to heathicorn.tumblr.com and her amazing TW summaries.
> 
> That is all! Now that the author's notes are almost as long as the chapter, enjoy!

 

Stiles sleeps in the next day, which is something of a luxury given that he’s been having a lot of nightmares lately, and decides to go for a walk to collect his thoughts. It’s actually a little chilly, so he pulls on the sweat shirt he had bought on his second morning there, and hits the streets. His stomach starts to growl less than an hour in, but he’s in the city, where you can hardly take three steps without hitting a bakery or a coffee shop. He heads inside and orders a latte with an extra shot, and a croissant.

There are a few tables outside, so he sits down where he can watch the people on the street. Then he sits down and starts making notes about what he needs to do once he gets back to Beacon Hills. Obviously, he needs to give his father some ridiculous hugs. He’s sure that the man has been eating nothing but donuts and curly fries since he’s been gone. Salad will be a necessity. He’ll need to go to the grocery store since there probably aren’t any vegetables in the house.

He needs to see Scott. They’ve spent most of the summer not talking, and it’s too weird to keep going. The thought makes his stomach squirm, because he still isn’t sure how to handle it. He knows that Scott is just letting him have his space, that he gave Scott every indication that he didn’t want to hang out right now. But he thinks they might need to have a talk about it. Scott seems to think he’s broken, and he’s not, can’t stand the idea of being treated that way anymore.

As for Derek, well, he just has no idea what he’ll say to him. ‘I’m really sorry that a psycho bitch raped you and killed your family’ just doesn’t seem to cut it. But he doesn’t think he can let it go without saying anything.

He’s so absorbed in his thoughts that he almost doesn’t react when he hears someone say Erica’s name as she walks by. He’s spent so much of his summer up in Derek’s loft, trying to find the two missing pack members, that it strikes him as perfectly normal. Then he remembers, abruptly, that he’s _not_ in Derek’s loft, and nobody near him should be talking about Erica. His head jerks up just in time to see two women vanish around the corner. He scrambles to his feet and follows them.

It takes a minute to catch up, and he’s grateful for the other people on the streets. It’s not super crowded, but it is a city, and there are always other people out and about. It makes it less obvious that he’s following them. A few minutes later, they sit down at a café on the corner. Stiles stops at a newsstand and pretends to peruse the magazine selection, stealing a sideways glance at the two women and suddenly realizing that he recognizes one of them. It’s Marin Morrell, the school guidance counselor. She’s sitting with a young woman who looks about Stiles’ age, with dark hair and skin.

He hears the words ‘lunar eclipse’ and strains his ears, kneeling down to pretend to tie his shoe. They’re talking quietly, but they don’t seem to realize he’s there. Which he supposes is fair. He’s only met Ms. Morrell a few times, has never taken any classes with her. He’s wearing a hat and sunglasses, so his face is hardly visible. He still can’t hear them very well, but he doesn’t dare move closer, lest they notice him eavesdropping.

But he catches a few things here and there. The girl’s name is Brayden or Rayden or something that puts him in the mind of Mortal Kombat. He hears them mention Boyd and Erica several times. Derek is never mentioned by name, but he hears the phrase ‘the alpha’ more than once, and Deucalion’s name at least twice.

He makes a mental note to never talk to a school guidance counselor ever again and eels past the little patio to pretend to study the café’s menu.

Then he hears Brayden mention ‘the vault’. It comes up several times in the conversation that follows, along with some words he doesn’t know, like ‘hecatolite’. He looks that up on his phone and finds out that it’s moonstone, which obviously has some sort of significance.

At the end of the conversation, the two women get up and venture close enough to him that he’s able to hear Ms. Morrell very clearly as she says, “I’m counting on you,” and then the two women split up. Stiles is out of his seat moments later and debates which one he should follow. He chooses Brayden, because he has no idea who might be more helpful, but at least she won’t recognize him.

It’s completely useless, though. She walks about two blocks, then goes into a parking garage, gets on a motorcycle, and drives away.

“Okay,” he says to himself. “The vault has to be where they’re keeping Erica and Boyd. So . . .”

He’s wandered quite a way from his motel by now, so he gets in a taxi and takes it back. Then he grabs his laptop and pulls up the area that they suspect Deucalion and the others are holed up in.

If ‘the vault’ is metaphorical, it’s completely worthless as information. But if it’s factual, there are only a few places that would apply. A bank, or a jewelry store, maybe a few other places that would need a high degree of security. But he can’t imagine it would be easy to store two werewolves inside one that was currently in use, so the building would have to be closed. It takes him about an hour on Google Street view to find it. First Beacon Hills National Bank. Closed about a year previous after a robbery.

Stiles’ breath is coming fast and shallow. He slams his laptop shut, grabs his things, and runs out to the Jeep. He only stops long enough to get some gas and buy a few sodas so he can keep himself caffeinated through the drive.

It’s late afternoon when he gets back to Beacon Hills. He doesn’t stop at home, but goes straight to Derek’s loft. He knocks on the door, loud and fast, and Derek swings it open a few moments later.

For a long second, they just stare at each other, the messages Derek left hanging in the air between them. Then Stiles blurts out, “I think I know where Erica and Boyd are.”

Derek’s eyes go a fraction wider. Then he pulls the door the rest of the way open and lets Stiles in. “What happened?” he asks, so Stiles tells him about seeing Morrell and her friend in the city.

“I’m guessing they met there because it wasn’t safe to meet here,” Stiles says. “Not that I know how Ms. Morrell is involved with any of this, but she clearly knows a hell of a lot more than she’s saying. Which, you know, isn’t new around here. So. The only place that could be referred to as a vault that’s anywhere near where Deucalion was spotted is this right here.” He stabs a finger at the map on the wall. “This bank closed last year after a robbery.”

“Well, that would be strong enough to hold them,” Derek agrees. “Did they say anything else important?”

“Uh, they mentioned a lunar eclipse coming up soon,” Stiles says, “and something about hecatolite.”

Derek’s face is blank, but a moment later, Stiles hears footsteps upstairs and then Peter’s head pokes through the opening. “Did you say ‘hecatolite’? Are you sure that’s what they said?”

Stiles nods. “Yeah, positive. It’s moonstone, right?”

“Yeah. Is there a way to find out if there’s any in the vault walls?”

“Uh, I’d have to get the blueprints for the bank, but let’s face it, if we’re going to try to break in, we’ll need those anyway,” Stiles says. “Why is it important?”

“Hecatolite scatters the moonlight,” Peter explains. “If they’ve been locked up in a vault with walls that are made with it – or even have some in it – they’ve been deprived of feeling the moon’s effects. That means that when they feel it again, they’re going to go off the rails.”

“Well, let’s find out,” Derek says, with that firm authority in his voice.

Stiles nods. “My dad can get me the plans. I should, uh, I should let him know that I’m back anyway. I just got back into town and came straight here. Uh. I could really use a change of pants at this rate, too, I’ve been wearing this pair for eight days straight.”

“We can tell,” Peter says.

Stiles flips him off, and Peter just gives him a smirk, which somehow Stiles interprets as that the older werewolf is actually glad to see him.

“Go,” Derek says. “I’ll get Isaac back here.”

“Okay, I’ll be back in an hour or so,” Stiles says.

He gets almost all the way out the door before Derek reaches out and gives his shoulder a firm squeeze. “I’m glad you’re back,” he says.

“Yeah, I – I missed you,” Stiles says. “You know.” He sees Peter rolling his eyes in the background and blushes, but doesn’t take it back. “I did. I’ll, uh, I’ll see you soon,” he adds, and pushes the rest of the way out of the loft before Derek can say anything else.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles is halfway to the station before it occurs to him that his father might not be there. He doesn’t want to drag him out of the field, but they’re somewhat pressed for time. They have to get Erica and Boyd to a safe location before moonrise. He thinks about pulling over to call or text him, but in the end decides against it. If his father isn’t at the station, he’ll just call him from there.

As it happens, he is, but he’s not at his desk. The new desk clerk – Stiles feels a pain in his chest every time he looks at where Kendra used to sit – tells Stiles that he’s taking a report, and should only be a few more minutes. Stiles wonders why the report is being taken in an interrogation room. A few minutes later, the door to it opens and a teenager that he vaguely recognizes – an upperclassman, one of Jackson’s pals – comes out. He’s wearing a thunderous scowl and a lot of bruises.

“We’ll be in touch,” Sheriff Stilinski says, as the teenager just glowers his way out of the station. Then his gaze lands on Stiles and a smile that’s as much relief as it is joy lights up his face. Just looking at it makes Stiles feel better about everything. “Hey, you,” his father says, getting him in one of those bear-hugs. Stiles feels his feet actually leave the ground for a minute. “Did you just get back?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Hey, uh . . . can we talk?”

The sheriff’s smile fades into a concerned frown, but he ushers Stiles back into his office. “What’s up?”

“First of all,” Stiles says, “don’t think that I don’t know you’ve been eating cheeseburgers the entire time I’ve been going, and you’re going on a strict asparagus and grapefruit diet for the next eight days.”

“Uh huh.” His father sounds unimpressed. “And?”

“And, I know where Boyd and Erica are.” Stiles gives his father a quick summary of the situation. “So, I need the blueprints for that bank. And any information about the robbery would be super.”

Sheriff Stilinski frowns. “It might take a few days . . .”

“Um, no, now would be better,” Stiles says. “We don’t know what’s happening to Boyd and Erica. And if we’re going to get them today, it has to be before moonrise.”

“I thought werewolves only go wonky on the full moon,” his father says.

Stiles waves one hand in a seesaw motion. “The closer to the full moon, the stronger it gets, and it’s more of a problem when it’s waxing than when it’s waning. Derek says that most werewolves really only have problems the night of the full moon, but that Erica and Boyd could have problems already because a) they’re such new werewolves, and b) they’ve been deprived of _any_ moonlight for almost four months now.”

“Okay,” Stilinski says. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’m gonna run home real quick,” Stiles says. “I need to change clothes and stuff. I’ll be back in twenty minutes or so.”

“Take your time. All rushing aside, it really will take at least an hour to get everything pulled out of the archives.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, and turns to go. His father grabs him by the wrist and pulls him in for another hug. “Don’t get weepy on me,” Stiles warns.

“I’m not crying,” his father says. “You’re crying.”

“Yeah, I’m actually going to start sobbing like a little girl any second now,” Stiles says, feeling tears sting at his eyes. “Thanks for letting me have some time off and not freaking out and coming after me. You’re seriously the best.”

Stilinski clutches him a little tighter for a moment, then lets go. Both of them take a few moments to manfully wipe their eyes and then pretend they didn’t see the other one do it. “Derek was really worried about you,” he says. “He came over a couple times for coffee to see if I knew how you were doing.”

“Yeah?” Stiles manages a little smile at that. “That’s good to know. Hey, gotta run, okay? I’ll be back soon.”

They exchange another hug, like his father just can’t let him out of his sight without one more embrace.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“So let me get this straight,” Sheriff Stilinski says a little over an hour later, frowning at the map. “Erica and Boyd are inside this vault in the abandoned bank. The walls of the vault are made with something that keeps the moonlight from getting to them. So the next time they feel the moon, they’re going to become . . .”

“Feral,” Peter supplies.

There’s a look on Stilinski’s face like he can’t quite believe he’s having this conversation. “So the point of taking Erica and Boyd was . . . what, exactly?”

“We don’t know yet,” Derek says.

“But,” Stiles pipes up, “these murders.” He jabs at the bulletin board. They’re back at Derek’s loft. His father had insisted on coming with him after getting him all the information on the bank, not only the blueprints but all the files on the robbery the previous year. “These murders that took place back after Deucalion lost his eyesight. You know what I think they are? I think each of the three alphas killed off _their own pack_.”

Derek flinches. Even Peter looks faintly nonplussed. “Why would they have done that?” Derek asks. “You don’t understand what losing a pack member is like. It’s not just like family. It’s like losing a limb.”

“Yes, but,” Stiles says, “we did some digging into the identities of these people, and some of them were known associates of Ennis or Kali. They’d been seen together before, have arrest records together, signed apartment leases together. These weren’t hunters that they killed for revenge. Whatever it was, it wasn’t like that. Maybe it’s like some sort of initiation. To prove yourself to Deucalion.”

“So they’re driving Erica and Boyd crazy . . . so Derek will have to kill them,” Peter says.

“I still don’t see why,” Derek says. “An initiation isn’t an initiation if you have to be tricked or forced into it.”

“Look, I don’t know,” Stiles says. “All I’m saying is, that’s my best explanation so far. Now why is a lunar eclipse important?”

Derek sighs. “During a lunar – ”

“Derek,” Peter says warningly. “That’s not the sort of information one lightly spreads around.”

Derek pushes both hands through his hair. “Yeah, well, I trust Stiles and his dad a hell of a lot more than I trust you,” he snaps at Peter. To Stiles, he continues, “We lose our powers. Become regular humans. Only during a full lunar eclipse. Which can last anywhere from a few minutes to several hours. There’s one coming up in just a few days.”

“So that sounds like a good time to rescue Erica and Boyd,” Isaac says. “They won’t be able to go apeshit on us if they’re just normal humans.”

“I’m not waiting,” Derek says, shaking his head. “We don’t know what Deucalion is doing to them. We’re going in now.”

Sheriff Stilinski gives him a hard look. “You’re talking about breaking into the vault.”

“Yes, obviously,” Derek says.

“And . . . why are you talking about doing that instead of letting me do my job, calling tactical, and doing this the legal way? We have every reason to believe that two minors are being held against their will. Deucalion might be an alpha, but I highly doubt he can stand up to a SWAT team.”

“Uh, he can,” Stiles says. He reaches out and grips his father’s forearm. “Dad, he can do that and worse. You didn’t see . . . Peter.” He gives the older man a hard look, and he gives a remorseless shrug. “Back when he was an alpha. He could have wiped the floor with any SWAT team I’ve ever seen. And it won’t just be Deucalion. Kali and Ennis could be there, and there might even be other members of the pack we don’t know about yet.”

Stilinski’s jaw set. “That doesn’t make me more inclined to let you guys go in there.”

“We’ll use the back door,” Derek says. “How did the thieves get in?”

“They, uh, they drilled through the vault wall,” Stiles says, shuffling through the blueprints, and then Derek is saying stupid things about just punching through the wall, and Peter’s rolling his eyes in the background like he thinks Derek needs anger management lessons.

After Derek has thoroughly convinced everyone that he can, in fact, punch through the vault wall, and Peter has flatly refused to go anywhere near the vault because he’s “not up to fighting speed”, a statement that Stiles finds _highly_ dubious, and Sheriff Stilinski has been talked out of bringing in tactical another three times, they finally have a working plan.

“What about you?” Derek asks.

“Well, yeah, if you want me to come,” Stiles says, surprised.

Derek’s gaze shifts to the side. “We wouldn’t have gotten this far without your help.”

“Okay, no,” Stilinski says. “I’m drawing the line here. I won’t call in the big guns if you’re all so convinced that they won’t be of use, but my son is _not_ going in there.”

“Dad, I’ll be okay,” Stiles says. “They might need me.”

“No offense, kid, but they’re the ones with teeth and claws; you’re the one with breakable bones. There’s no way I’m going to let you go in there.”

Stiles is quiet for a minute before he says quietly, “All this werewolf stuff has been scary. I’ve been beat up, pushed around, threatened, sometimes hurt pretty bad. But the worst thing that’s ever happened to me happened at a girl’s party where I should have been perfectly safe.” He lifts his gaze and meets his father’s eyes. “You can’t keep me in a bubble, Dad. I’m going to help my friends.”

Sheriff Stilinski draws in a quick breath. Then he says, “Okay. But you had better not get hurt, you hear me?”

Stiles salutes. “Sir, yes sir.”

Stilinski points a finger at Derek and adds, “I’m holding you personally responsible if anything happens to him.”

Derek nods solemnly, as if this is a perfectly acceptable thing to say, while Stiles scowls at his father. Then he checks his watch. “We’ve only got an hour until moonrise,” he says. “We’d better get going.”

“I still say you should wait,” Peter says. “The moon is waxing. Wait a few days. Get them after the eclipse, when it’s waning. They’ll be much easier to contain then.”

“No,” Derek says. “Anything could happen between now and then. I’m not leaving them there.”

Peter shrugs. “Your funeral. But how exactly do you plan to keep them from killing anyone once you’ve gotten them?”

“Stiles can use mountain ash. We’ll contain them that way.”

“Put them in a mountain ash circle and they’ll hurt themselves,” Peter points out. “For lack of a better option. And you don’t dare expose them to wolfsbane when they’ve been deprived of the moon. You could kill them that way. Any sedative you use would wear off much too quickly.”

“Jesus, Debbie Downer,” Stiles says. “Why don’t you stop shooting down plans we haven’t made yet and suggest something useful?”

Peter gives another shrug. “If you’re intent on doing this tonight, not even waiting for _sunrise_ as some sort of reasonable precaution, then your only option is to restrain them by force.”

“Well, we can . . .” Derek grimaces and apparently has second thoughts. “Come to think of it, that didn’t go so well their first full moon. If it hadn’t been for Isaac . . .”

“And that’s without the convenient fun of them being juiced up,” Peter says.

“And of course, you’re not going to be any help,” Derek says, clearly annoyed.

“We should call Scott,” Isaac says. “He can help.”

Stiles flinches despite himself. Derek looks at him, then says, “No. We can handle this. We don’t need to – ”

“It’s fine,” Stiles interrupts. He lets out a breath, then says, “Yeah, it’s fine. I can’t hide from him forever. He’s my bro. I’ll go pick him up and bring him up to speed on the way there. I’ll meet you guys in twenty. Okay?”

After a moment, Derek nods. He looks at Peter and says, “I don’t suppose I could impose the onerous task of bringing some things to the warehouse for me?”

“I think I can probably manage that,” Peter says.

Stiles grabs his keys and heads down to the car. His father catches up with him. “I’m going with you,” he says.

Stiles opens his mouth to protest, sees the look on his father’s face, and realizes he would be howling into a tornado. If he’s going to insist on going, he can hardly insist that his father doesn’t. “Okay,” he says. “Uh, bring a taser. That actually works better than a gun. They’ll fight through bullet wounds but the taser will at least knock them down for a few seconds. But, uh, let me go pick up Scott on my own. Okay?”

“Okay,” his father says. He catches him in a bear hug, one of their awkward, clutching, back-slapping hugs that Stiles loves so much. Then he jogs over to the Jeep.

He finds Scott doing pull-ups one-handed while he reads The Grapes of Wrath. Stiles can’t help it; he actually just bursts into laughter. “You look like an Old Spice commercial,” he says, and adopts the announcer’s voice. “Look at your alpha, now back to me. Now back to your alpha – ”

Scott tosses the book aside, a genuine smile on his face. “Hey,” he says. “What are you doing here?”

“I, uh, it’s kind of a long story,” Stiles says. “I’ll explain it on the way. Grab your shoes. We’ve got rescuin’ to do.”

Scott’s smile fades into a concerned frown. “Are you . . . okay?”

Stiles meets his eyes. “Look,” he says, “we need to talk, and I need to use the r-word, so don’t freak out on me, okay?” He holds Scott’s gaze, sees him flinch but then nod. “I got raped. It was horrible. It left scars on me that might not ever go away. But I’m still _Stiles_. I’m still your brother. And I need you to stop treating me like I’m made of spun glass, like the first wrong word will send me into catatonic shock. Because the more you treat me that way, the more I feel like it. I’m okay, Scotty. I just want to go back to being the snarky sidekick.”

There’s a long pause while Scott studies him, like he’s looking for something in Stiles’ face. Whatever it is, he seems to find it, because he nods and says, “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’m glad. That you’re okay. I mean. You know what I mean.”

“Just as eloquent as ever,” Stiles says.

“Shut up,” Scott protests, laughing. “Just tell me who we’re rescuing. And from whom.”

“From _whom_?” Stiles says, and now he’s laughing, too. “Jesus, you really have been locked up in here studying all summer. C’mon. Time’s a’wastin’.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PACK FEELS AHOY~~~~~
> 
> Also known as: the chapter in which I fix a lot of the things I hated about season three. Enjoy! =D

It takes almost the entire ride to the bank for Scott to get over the fact that Stiles has been voluntarily spending time in Derek’s presence. “I thought you two couldn’t stand each other,” he says, more than once. Stiles just shrugs this off and focuses on the matter at hand. Finally, Scott says, “So, Erica and Boyd have been missing _all summer_ and nobody told me?”

“Look,” Stiles says, “you made it pretty clear that you didn’t want to be part of Derek’s pack. That made it officially not your problem. I was helping out . . . mostly to distract myself, in the beginning at least. And because I felt guilty, like if I had helped them get out of the Argents’ basement, it wouldn’t have happened. He didn’t want to tell you. He didn’t _trust_ you. Let’s face it, Scotty, you didn’t really give him reasons to.”

Scott sighs. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess you’re right. I just feel bad.”

“Well, this is your chance to make up for it,” Stiles says, parking the Jeep in the alley beside the bank. Derek and Isaac are already waiting there, as is his father.

Derek greets them tersely, barely looking at Scott. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll get Boyd. Isaac, you get Erica. Scott, you’re our back-up. And you two . . .” His gaze fixes on the two humans. “Just try to stay back and not make yourselves into targets.”

“Man, we’ve got to talk about your bedside manner,” Stiles says. Derek just gives him a withering look.

“Hey,” Scott says, as Derek grabs the first rung of the ladder. “I just wanted to, uh . . . thanks. For helping Stiles out this summer. You know. Being there for him.”

Derek looks at Scott like he just got off a spaceship and sprouted horns. Then he says, “Sure. Whatever.”

“And . . . I’m sorry. For what happened with Gerard. It was a shitty thing to do.”

A tiny bit of tension goes out of Derek’s shoulders. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, and starts up the ladder before it can turn into some sort of _moment_.

Stiles just shakes his head a little, waiting for the three werewolves to go up the ladder before he starts climbing. It takes approximately two minutes for everything in their carefully constructed plan to go to shit, when Derek smashes through the wall, into the vault, and they find themselves facing not two werewolves but three. Derek freezes; he goes completely, horribly still, and whispers, “Cora?” with enough hope and heartbreak in his voice to make Stiles flinch.

“Derek,” the brunette says, through gritted teeth. “Get out, get out of here now.”

“Guys, we’ve got ten minutes until moonrise, so whatever this is, can it wait?” Stiles interrupts.

“Yeah. Yeah,” Derek says hastily. “I . . . I just . . . oh my God, Cora.”

Since he’s not moving, Isaac and Scott hasten forward to start freeing the others from their chains. Stiles and his father, as promised, stay in the crawlspace outside the vent. But he can see into the vault quite clearly, so he sees Scott suddenly stare at the door and flinch. “Wait, what are you – ” he begins, and Stiles cranes his head inside to see Marin Morrell laying down a line of mountain ash. His gaze darts downwards to see it laid out around the perimeter of the room.

“They’ve sealed us inside,” Cora says, her voice almost angry. “Once the moon comes up, we’ll tear you apart. Why didn’t you listen to me?”

“I – ” Derek begins, but Stiles cuts him off.

“Ahem,” he says, and waves his hand over the line of mountain ash, breaking the circle.

“Oh,” Cora says.

“Come on,” Derek says. “Now, before they figure it out.”

They scramble for the air shaft. It takes more work to get up than it did to get down, and Stiles is starting to think that he might have to be carried, which would be horribly embarrassing, but they make it. Then they scramble for the cars.

“Seven minutes,” Stiles says, checking his watch. “Can we make it?”

“We’d better,” Derek says grimly.

It’s a good thing they brought Scott along, because otherwise they would have been one werewolf short for the werewolf cage matches that are going to be taking place. They reach the warehouse with barely enough time to get Boyd, Erica, and Cora strapped down. Even Cora is losing control, despite having been a werewolf her entire life. While they’re doing that, Stiles makes a circle of mountain ash around the entire warehouse, just in case one of them manages to break free of the restraints.

“We’re in for a rough – ” Derek starts to say, as Erica lets out a howl that sounds more like a scream and starts trying to rip the chains right out of the wall. “Night,” Derek finishes grimly.

“But we’ve got them,” Stiles says. He feels elation bubbling up in his throat. “They’re here, we got them.”

“Yeah,” Derek says quietly, staring at the three werewolves. “Yeah, we got them.” He reaches out with one arm and pulls Stiles against his chest. Stiles tenses, but then relaxes into it.

“So . . .” Stiles begins.

Peter beats him to the punch as he strolls out of the dark corner he was lurking in so he wouldn’t have to get involved in chaining up the feral, rescued werewolves. For a moment, Stiles has the pleasure of seeing him well and truly shocked. “Is that – ”

“Cora,” Derek says, with a nod. “My sister,” he adds for the benefit of those who don’t know. “My younger sister.”

“Jesus Christ on a Cracker Jack,” Stiles says.

“Stiles,” Derek chokes out. “Stiles, my sister. You . . . if it hadn’t been for you . . .”

“Easy, big fella,” Stiles says, helping him sit down as the sister in question screams in defiance and tries to pull free from the chains. “Life works in mysterious ways,” he adds, for lack of anything better to say. Derek gives him an incredulous look, and then huffs out a little laugh. It’s shaky, borderline hysterical, but there.

They’d probably talk about it more, except right around then Boyd gets free with a roar of challenge, and Derek hurls himself forward to keep him from heading for the exit. The brawl they get into is extensive, but with Scott and Isaac’s help, he’s able to get him chained up again. But it isn’t the last time it happens. It is, indeed, a long night at the warehouse. Sheriff Stilinski leaves long enough to pick up some pizza and several cases of soda. That helps get them through the night.

In the quieter moments, when the restrained werewolves are worn out, Stiles sits with Scott and his father and tells them about his time in San Francisco. “I know that it’s not going to be easy, going back to school and everything, but . . . fuck it. There’s just not enough time in the day to worry about what a bunch of assholes think of me. And this whole thing with Erica and Boyd has really put it in perspective.” He looks over at Derek, who’s sitting just out of Cora’s reach while she tries to get free and kill him, an expression of desperate hope on his face. “What happened to me sucked, but . . . it’s over. I’m going to get past it.”

“Well,” his father says, “you may not have to worry _quite_ as much about people passing the photographs around.”

“Oh, geez,” Stiles says. “What did you do?”

His father lifts his hands in surrender. “I didn’t do anything beyond _not_ charge Derek with assault and criminal threatening even though I have very strong reasons to believe that he’s systematically tracking down everyone who has those photos, starting with the person who sent one to him, and beating the shit out of them.”

Stiles thinks about this for a few moments. “Derek?” he asks.

Derek looks over his shoulder. “I understand that, when you were being bullied, your policy was one of non-response,” he says, “and that’s fine. But it’s not _my_ policy.”

“Oh my God,” Stiles says, but throws in the towel. “Lydia’s helping you, I presume?”

“Yeah, she’s gotten me some phone numbers,” Derek says.

“Of course she has,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “So, uh . . . did you really beat the crap out of people?”

“Only a few,” Derek says. “The rest seemed to get the message.”

Stiles laughs a little. “Thanks. I think.”

“Peter helped, too,” Derek adds. “So either he actually likes you, or he just wanted an excuse to indulge his violent urges.”

“Wow,” Stiles says, “I can’t begin to guess.”

The sun eventually comes up, leaving the three werewolves who spent the night in chains exhausted and half-conscious. All of them have wounds from the many tussles they got into with Derek, Isaac, and Scott. But they’re healing, albeit slowly. “We should take Erica and Boyd home to their parents,” Sheriff Stilinski says.

Derek looks positively spooked at the idea of letting his two lost pack members out of his sight, so Stiles hastily intervenes. “Give us twenty-four hours. Okay? They’ve been missing this long, another day won’t hurt, right?”

Sheriff Stilinski seems a little dubious, but allows Stiles to talk him into it. If for no other reason, once they’re healed and rested, they can go back home under their own steam and pretend they ran away together, so they won’t have to explain where they were rescued from. “I’ve gotta get to work,” he says.

“I should go, too,” Scott says. “Mom was working night shift. I want to get her breakfast and stuff.”

“Breakfast sounds good,” Derek says, yawning and stretching.

“I’ll have Lydia pick something up,” Stiles says. “She’ll want the news, anyway.”

They drift apart. Derek, Isaac, and Stiles take the three unconscious pack members back to the loft. Derek assures them that now that the sun is up, they should be in control of themselves. It might be another rough night, but after that, they’ll be back to normal. Peter has skulked off to God knows where. So Derek and the others get the three of them tucked into bed. Isaac collapses next to them, worn out from the long night. It’s close quarters, but none of them seem to mind.

For the first time since his return, Stiles and Derek are left basically alone together. “Coffee?” Derek asks, going into the kitchen.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Thanks.” He waits while Derek putters around in the kitchen, coming out with two mugs. It’s reheated, not fresh, but he’ll take it. He grew up on police station coffee. “I, uh . . . I got your messages,” he finally says. “Thanks.”

Derek just gives a little nod.

“I was going to come home,” Stiles says. “I don’t want you thinking it was just because of Erica and Boyd. It wasn’t. If . . . that was all it had been, I would have just texted you the info, what I heard. I came home because of you.”

Derek’s gaze flits up to him, then back to his mug. “Okay,” he says.

“Okay,” Stiles replies.

Derek clears his throat. “Full disclosure,” he says. “I was talking with your dad when you called and asked him about moving away from Beacon Hills. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop or anything, but I could hear you on the other end of the phone. I, uh. That’s not _why_ I left you that message, or at least not _all_ of why, but . . . the thought of you leaving . . . I guess that’s part of what made me finally say it.”

“I can dig it,” Stiles says. “I mean, I’m not mad.”

“Okay. I just . . . thought you should know that.”

The silence lasts several minutes, but it’s strangely comfortable, more comfortable than Stiles would have thought possible, now that Derek knew what had happened to him.

“You know what I could really go for?” he asks.

“Mm?”

“Rashomon. Got that in your box set?”

Derek’s lips twitch. “Yeah, it’s in there,” he says, and heads for the television. Lydia arrives a few minutes later with cardboard boxes filled with food, and more coffee. She hugs Stiles for several minutes, and they settle on the sofa together, with the movie, although they keep the volume down low, to avoid disturbing the others.

Stiles falls asleep half an hour into the movie, which is really no surprise, given that he was up all night. Apparently Derek falls asleep, too, because he wakes up some time later, confused and disoriented, but with his face mashed against Derek’s chest. He’s drooled in his sleep, which is moderately embarrassing. But he can feel the rise and fall of Derek’s breath, easy and relaxed, and closes his eyes. He feels safe again.

When he hears a floorboard creak, his eyes open and he sits up. Lydia smiles at him. “Sorry, did I wake you?” she murmurs. “I had to get up to get a drink.”

“’m all right,” Stiles says, rubbing a hand over his face. Now that he’s awake, he needs to use the bathroom. So he gets up and heads in that direction. When he comes back out, Lydia hands him a can of soda with one of her beautiful smiles. “How long did I sleep?”

“About six hours,” she says. “Everyone else is still out. I hung around in case anyone needed anything.”

“You’re awesome,” he says.

They restart the movie. Lydia says she doesn’t mind. She’s solving calculus equations on the side anyway. But they’re interrupted again less than fifteen minutes later when Erica wakes up. She gets out of bed slowly and walks over. Tears are sliding down her cheeks as she stares at the three of them.

“I didn’t think he’d come for us,” she says, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “We left him. I thought . . .”

Derek startles a little in his sleep, as if he can feel her distress. He sits up and looks over at her. Then he gestures her over. Somehow they wind up sitting on the floor, with Erica’s cheek pressed against his shoulder, his hand rubbing slow circles on her back.

“I don’t think I could have taken it much longer,” she says into his shirt. “Being pinned up like that . . .”

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Derek murmurs into her hair. “Everything’s okay now.”

The noise wakes Boyd and Isaac, who drift over. More hugs are exchanged. At first, Boyd won’t look Derek in the eye. But then he does, and just shakes his head, and says, “I didn’t understand.”

“It’s done,” Derek says, squeezing his shoulder. “We all made mistakes. So we’ll put it behind us. Make a fresh start, all of us, together.”

Boyd nods. He reaches out and laces his fingers through Erica’s. She manages a watery smile for him. The two of them sit down next to Derek. Isaac is between Derek and Lydia. Boyd reaches out and gives him a friendly shoulder shove. Stiles goes into the kitchen and comes back with one of the twelve-packs of soda and the remains of breakfast. “Who’s hungry?” he asks.

“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ,” Erica says. “Is that fucking bacon? Give that to me right now, asshole,” she adds, grinning at him.

Stiles laughs and shares out the food. Lydia had brought more than enough. Derek says he isn’t hungry, but he takes one of the sodas. Then he reaches out and snags Stiles by the wrist, drawing the teenager down between him and Isaac. Stiles leans against his shoulder. It’s a little tentative, but Derek wraps an arm around him and pulls him in, snug and tight.

The noise and laughter draws Cora in. She stands outside their circle, fiddling with her hair, uncertain. Derek looks up at her. “Cora,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m all right,” she says. Her voice is a little rough, like she’s close to tears but won’t let herself cry. “When I heard – that you were back – I didn’t know what to think. But . . . it really is you. And . . .” She looks around at the others. “They said you wouldn’t come for them, but I kept telling them that they didn’t understand what an alpha was.”

Derek nods at her a little. “Yeah,” he says. “Cora . . . meet my pack. You know Erica and Boyd, of course. That’s Lydia, Isaac . . . and this is Stiles.” His voice takes on a note of warmth and possession when he speaks Stiles’ name. That makes the teenager smile a little. “And . . . you. If you want. You’re welcome. You’re family.”

Cora nods a little, wiping at her eyes.

“That’s my cue,” Stiles says, vacating Derek’s lap.

“You don’t have to – ” Derek begins.

“Nope, I’m good, I’ll be over here with a beautiful lady on each arm,” Stiles says, settling between Lydia and Erica.

Derek shakes his head a little, but holds a hand out to Cora. She takes it, hesitant, and allows him to draw her down next to him. He presses his cheek against the top of her head and just _breathes_ for a minute, closing his eyes. “I can hardly believe it when I look at you,” he says.

Cora laughs a little. “Me neither,” she says. “I mean, when I heard you were alive . . . and now here you are, with a, a pack and a mate and everything.”

“A what?” Boyd asks.

“A _mate_?” Erica asks, her gaze flicking around the room like she’s trying to guess who she means.

“Uh,” Cora says, blinking uncertainly. “Is it – did I just – ”

“It’s fine,” Derek says, but the tips of his ears are turning red. “We, uh, we haven’t talked about it.”

“Oh,” Cora says, wincing. “Sorry.”

“Wait, I’m still confused,” Erica says.

“It’s me,” Stiles tells her, since Derek obviously doesn’t want to ‘out’ him.

“Oh,” Erica says. A smile curves across her cheeks. “Wow, suddenly there are _so many_ things that make sense. Like the pool . . .”

“I thought you two couldn’t stand each other,” Boyd says, frowning.

“Of course they couldn’t,” Erica says, rolling her eyes dramatically. “It’s classic pigtail-pulling.”

“Okay, if you guys are all quite done discussing a relationship that we don’t even technically have,” Derek says, “I’m putting the movie on.” But he looks over at Stiles. “We okay?”

“Yeah, we’re cool,” Stiles says. “We can talk about it later. You know. Privately.”

“After the movie,” Derek says.

Stiles nods decisively. “After the movie.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Derek and Stiles don’t wind up talking about it that day, because there are just way too many people around. It’s a party, sort of. Those among them that were hurt are still healing. The werewolves  released from captivity are eating everything in sight. Scott stops by to say hi, and it’s a little awkward, but he gets drawn into the movie they’re watching, and winds up hanging out for a while. They sleep in a pile, dragging blankets and pillows into a huge mess on the floor.

The next morning, Sheriff Stilinski arrives to take Boyd and Erica home. “Time to face the music,” Erica says, grimacing. Boyd doesn’t look eager, either. Isaac is off doing whatever Isaac does when he’s not at Derek’s, and Lydia goes home, stating that she has an important appointment at the salon. Peter is nowhere to be seen, and Cora’s gone to take a shower.

“So . . .” Stiles says. “Mates.”

Derek turns pink all the way up to the tips of his ears. “It’s not, uh, it doesn’t have to be a thing. I mean, we’re not talking about some irreversible connection like imprinting in Twilight – ”

Stiles cackles. “Of _course_ you’ve read Twilight,” he says.

Derek scowls at him. “I’ve read everything,” he says. “Problem?”

“Nope, no problem,” Stiles says, grinning. “Okay, but seriously. Uh. You should probably tell me what this _means_ before I agree to anything. Or refuse anything. Because Cora didn’t say ‘boyfriend’, she said ‘mate’, so I’m thinking there’s a difference.”

With a sigh, Derek pushes a hand through his hair and says, “Yeah. Well, yes and no. I mean, it isn’t a mystical connection. But most wolves view it as . . . something beyond a boyfriend. I mean, it has a specific position in pack hierarchy. It would put you above everyone else. Normally Isaac would be the first ranking of the betas, since he was the first one I turned, but you would rank above him.”

“If that means it’s my job to call you out, I’ve had that since day one anyway,” Stiles says.

Derek gives him a look that clearly shows how unamused he is. “Some packs would still place you lower in the hierarchy because you’re human, but . . . not in this pack. That’s not how I do things. Anyway, uh.” He rubs a hand over the back of his head, trying to think things through. “There are also some, uh, some instincts that typically go along with the position.”

“Meaning?” Stiles asks, tensing up despite himself.

“I’d, uh, I would want you to carry my scent. Which means touching you a lot. It’s not, not sexual, it’s about . . . a different kind of intimacy. But if you aren’t comfortable with that yet, you could borrow my clothes.” He looks a little embarrassed. “That would be okay.”

“Uh, casual touching is fine, you are aware I was sleeping in your lap the other day, right?”

Derek clears his throat. “Being a mate is all about . . . closeness. Accepting things that nobody else gets to give you. And an alpha wants to take care of their mate. Which would mean bringing you food. Or, um, grooming.” The blush is rising in his cheeks. “Like, brushing your hair. Or helping you shave.”

“I am not shaving my chest,” Stiles says. “I don’t care that you wax your ridiculous muscles. I’m not doing it.”

Now Derek scowls at him. “That’s not the point. And . . . you’re not freaking out.”

“No. You’re a werewolf. After that, none of your little habits is freak-out-worthy.” Stiles gives a shrug. “So you want to brush my hair and feed me strawberries. Actually that sounds adorable.”

“It’s not . . . _adorable_ ,” Derek says, his scowl deepening.

“Whatever you say, dude.” Stiles is really enjoying this. “But. I presume there’s actual . . . boyfriend components to this relationship,” he adds. Derek folds his arms over his chest, trying to cover his nervousness with fake exasperation. “Right?” Stiles pushes, and Derek gives him a curt nod. Stiles thinks about this. “Do you find me attractive?”

The blush comes back, which is really answer enough, but Derek says, “Yeah.”

“Really? Because you’re like, all muscled man-god, and I’m over here like . . . skinny and pale and weird-looking. What parts of me, specifically, do you find attractive?”

“Your hands,” Derek says. He hesitates, then adds, “Your moles.”

“You noticed my moles?”

Scowling and pink all the way up to his ears, Derek mutters, “And your mouth.”

“Dude, nobody finds my mouth attractive,” Stiles says happily. He sees Derek just glowering and says, “Well, for the record, you’re pretty easy on the eyes yourself. I mean, I like . . . your back. And where your back meets your legs. That whole area.”

“Quoting Firefly is cheating.”

“Oh my God, you’ve seen Firefly, this really might be meant to be,” Stiles says. He clears his throat and says, “No, but seriously, uh, you’re really hot. I mean. I probably would have been aggressively flirting with you from day one, not that I have any idea how to flirt, if it weren’t for . . .”

His voice trails off. But it doesn’t sit there like an elephant in the room. Derek walks over and rubs a hand over his hair, draws him in with one arm for a loose embrace. “I won’t ask you for anything,” he says. “We can take this as slow as you need to.”

Stiles nods a little, pressing his cheek into Derek’s shoulder. “Yeah. I, uh, I’m good with hugging. I kinda like the hugging. That, uh, that’s about all I’m good for, I think. For a while, at least.”

“Okay.” Derek rubs his cheek against Stiles’ hair. “As long as you understand that I don’t cuddle and I’m doing this solely for your benefit.”

“Hah! You liar,” Stiles says, smirking at him as Derek lets him go. “You’re nothing but a big softie.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Derek says stiffly. It looks like he might say something else, but then the bathroom door opens. Cora comes out, damp-haired and dressed in one of Derek’s tank tops and a pair of his boxer shorts. He frowns at her and says, “We should take you shopping. Presuming . . . that you don’t have things somewhere.”

After a moment, she shakes her head a little. She’s still wary, standoffish, in a way that reminds Stiles very strongly of her older brother when he first came to Beacon Hills. She’s less angry about it, and more watchful. “No. I mean, I had stuff, but it was at a motel room that I haven’t been to in months. I doubt it’s still there anymore.”

The fact that Derek isn’t asking Cora any questions is driving Stiles relatively crazy. He understands why Derek is doing it, one hundred percent. He doesn’t want to push his sister, who obviously doesn’t feel like the ground is steady beneath her feet. But Stiles doesn’t like not knowing where she’s been, how she found out Derek was alive, or how the alpha pack captured her. He forces himself to follow Derek’s lead . . . at least for now.

“Let’s get something to eat first,” Derek says.

That sounds good to Stiles. “Hey, so, I’ve been wearing the same clothes for two days now. Mind if I borrow a T-shirt?”

Derek gives him this look full of confused emotion: gratitude, anxiety, longing. Then he gives his shoulder a shove and says, “I don’t know that I have any sarcastic enough for you.”

“I’ll make do.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone needs me, I'll be over here, trying to invent motivation for Deucalion that both fits his actions and makes some amount of sense. =D

 

So that’s how Stiles winds up sitting at an IHOP with Derek and Cora, and ten minutes after they’ve sat down Peter shows up, like he just happened to run into them there and he isn’t a creepy stalker at all.

“So, Cora,” he says, “where have you been hiding yourself?”

Derek gives Peter a hard stare. “Cora can tell us when she’s ready.”

“Derek, I can take care of myself,” Cora snaps back.

“Says the girl who was literally held prisoner in a vault until two days ago,” Stiles points out. Cora glowers at him but then mutters something and goes for her glass of water. “Seriously, though,” Stiles adds, “putting aside ‘how did you survive the fire’ and ‘where have you been the last six years’, it would at least be nice if you could tell us anything you know about the alpha pack, like how they captured you, because they _are_ probably going to be pretty pissed at us for breaking into their vault and rescuing you guys.”

Cora’s glower lessens, although only slightly. She sighs and says, “I heard that Derek was an alpha and was rebuilding the pack. That’s why I came back. But I didn’t know where to find him. So I basically went sniffing around for any alpha scent that I could find. It’s been six years. I didn’t realize what I found wasn’t Derek at all. I followed it to that stupid vault and basically handed myself over to them.”

“When was that?” Derek asked.

“About six weeks ago.”

“That explains why you weren’t anywhere near as bad as the other two,” Peter says. “You weren’t in there as long.”

Cora nods curtly. “They said that they had left your pack and you weren’t going to come for them. I told them they were idiots.” She gives a little shrug. “Erica was talking about trying to make a break for it during the eclipse. I don’t know what would have happened if she had tried.”

“Do you have any idea why they were holding you captive?” Stiles asks.

“Sure,” Cora says. Her mouth twists on the word. “Deucalion told us all the fuck about it, taunting us. He wanted us to go feral so Derek would have to kill us to stop us from hurting innocents. I guess each of the alpha pack has killed their own pack and absorbed their power. Deucalion seemed to think if Derek killed even one of his pack members, he would realize the power he could gain and would kill the rest willingly.”

Derek looks utterly revolted. Stiles reaches out and gives his hand a squeeze. “Do you have any idea what he wants in the long run?” he asks.

Cora shakes her head. “There I can’t help you.”

“Well, I think I know someone who can,” Stiles says. “We should probably go pay Ms. Morrell a visit before she decides to pack up her bags and leave town.”

“I still can’t even figure out how she’s involved,” Derek says, frowning.

Peter sips his coffee and says, “She’s probably Deucalion’s emissary.”

Three annoyed stares meet him. “Gee, look at that, Peter’s been holding out on us again,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s an emissary?”

“An emissary is a human member of the pack who confers directly with the alpha, who helps them keep their connection with humanity,” Peter says, “which proves that Morrell isn’t a very good one, among other things. They serve as an advisor to the pack, and they’re usually some sort of witch or sorcerer.”

“Druid,” Cora says.

“I don’t believe in political correctness,” Peter says. “A witch is a witch. Stiles, you should be familiar with the position. You’re Derek’s emissary.”

Stiles thinks this over, then nods. “Okay. That makes sense.” He frowns a little and adds, “Can the alpha’s mate be the emissary?”

Peter’s eyebrows go up. “Why, nephew, you didn’t tell me that you two had finally stopped dithering and made it official. When’s the wedding?”

Derek gives him an annoyed look. “Answer his question.”

Amused, Peter says, “Yes, the emissary can be the alpha’s mate.”

“Okay, then, emissary I am,” Stiles says.

Steering them back onto the topic at hand, Derek says, “So Morrell should know Deucalion’s plans.”

“Know them, yes,” Peter says. “Be willing to tell us about them? Highly doubtful.”

“I’ll persuade her,” Derek says.

Peter lets out a snort of laughter. “That ought to be rich. Make sure you get it on film so I can laugh about it later.” He takes another drink of his coffee while Derek gives him one of those annoyed stares. “I could go talk to her, while you do the . . . shopping.”

“Nobody wants you anywhere near the alpha pack,” Stiles says. Peter just looks at him. “Dude. Do you think we’ve got the collective memory of a goldfish?”

“I told Derek that I have no interest in being an alpha again,” Peter says.

“I’ll grant that your performance was pretty sucktastic, but _nobody_ believes you, and don’t insult out intelligence by implying that we do,” Stiles says. Peter just gives him another one of those looks, and Stiles is losing his temper. “You know what, nobody invited you anyway. Nobody asked for your help. So why don’t you just get the fuck out.”

Peter looks at Derek and says, “You’d better put a leash on him before he gets hurt.”

Stiles opens his mouth to say something that will probably get him in trouble, but Derek squeezes his forearm and says, “He’s gotten the better of you twice. I’d be willing to let him go for round three.”

“Really, nephew?” Peter’s voice drips fake disappointment. But he pushes back from the table. “Well, Cora, it’s been lovely to see you. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again.”

He turns and walks out of the restaurant, sauntering out like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Derek waits until the door has closed behind him before he shakes his head a little and turns to his sister, who’s been sitting there in silence, her jaw tightly clenched. “You . . . weren’t surprised by any of that.”

Cora shakes her head. “Deucalion told me that he had killed Laura. He . . . he told me _all_ about it. I think he liked . . . watching the impact that the news had on me. If anything, I was surprised that you hadn’t killed him.”

“Yeah, well, we tried,” Stiles says. “It didn’t take.”

Derek glowers at his plate for a minute before stabbing at his eggs. “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s finish eating and then get Cora some things.”

Stiles is somewhat curious about where they will end up. He knows that Derek doesn’t like to spend a lot of money on things he considers ‘non essential’ and he’s pretty sure that clothing is one of those things. But he also can’t picture Derek standing in a Wal-Mart. The idea is just completely foreign to him.

He’s somehow completely unsurprised when he finds themselves at a strip mall on the far side of town. Locally owned businesses. “Are you a hipster?” he asks Derek.

“What the hell is that?” Derek asks, and Stiles laughs so hard that he has to sit down.

Cora just shakes her head at both of them and goes into one of the stores, heading straight for the discount racks at the front. She gets a handful of sporty tank tops, a few long sleeved shirts in case of rain or cool weather, and several pairs of jeans. Then she adds two bargain bags of underwear and two of socks. “I’m going to need new shoes,” she says.

“There’s a store a few shops down,” Derek says.

They grab a pair of sneakers for her there and a pair of sandals, and then go down to the pharmacy on the corner so she can grab toothpaste, toothbrush, et cetera. Stiles offers to go grab them each a drink from the cooler, because it’s a hot day out and they’re all sweating like pigs. He passes two girls looking through the makeup together. One of them looks up, giggles, and then elbows the other. He blows them a kiss and heads for the cooler. A lemonade for Cora, a Coke for Derek, and a Mountain Dew for himself.

It’s not until they get to the cash register that they see the girls again. Derek is frowning over at them, although Stiles can’t make out the hushed whispers that are going between the two of them. One of them is playing with their phone and then they both look up at Derek. Another spate of giggles.

“Excuse me,” Derek says, leaving where they’re waiting in line and walking over to the two girls.

“Oh geez,” Stiles says. He looks at Cora and remembers that she has werewolf hearing. “What, uh, what did they say?”

Cora looks a little bewildered. “One of the girls just said, ‘is that him? Pull up the photo, we can compare.’”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Okay. This is gonna get awkward.” He watches as Derek gives the two girls a charming smile and holds out his hand for the phone. Looking completely uncertain, the girl hands it to him. Derek closes his fist around it, and pieces of electronics fall to the floor. “Oh wow. That was . . . kinda hot, actually.”

“What the actual fuck is happening?” Cora asks, as Derek walks back over, looking pleased with himself.

“You can’t do that!” one of the girls shouts after him. “That’s property damage!”

“Oh, yeah?” Derek says over his shoulder. “Why don’t you call the police? I’m sure the sheriff would be _happy_ to take a look at your phone.”

Fuming, the two girls storm out of the store. “The hell?” Cora asks, as Derek walks back over to pay for her things.

“It’s nothing,” Derek tells her.

Stiles rolls his eyes. He hadn’t exactly _forgotten_ that Cora didn’t know – neither did Erica or Boyd, for that matter – but he can’t really leave her in the dark after that. He decides to go vague. “A while back, there were some pictures being passed around that involved me in, let’s say, a compromising position. Guessing who the other guy in the photo was became a bit of a game with the other kids in my school. As you can see, it’s a game Derek doesn’t approve of.”

“You can say that again,” Cora says.

“It’s a game Derek doesn’t approve of,” Stiles repeats.

“Smartass,” Cora says with a smirk, and punches him in the arm.

“Well,” Stiles says, as they leave the store. “Should we go pay a visit to Ms. Morrell?”

“Do we know where to find her?” Derek asks.

“I had my dad look up her address for me,” Stiles says. He gestures to the Camaro and then says, “I’ll drive.”

“In your dreams,” Derek retorts, but he agrees to take directions.

Marin Morrell lives in a condo near the center of town. It’s a cute little place, not at all what they expected. Derek tells him to stay back, which doesn’t surprise Stiles at all, and he agrees. He wishes they had more backup, but he also doesn’t think that showing up with the entire pack would be a good way to convince Ms. Morrell to talk to them.

She answers the door within a few moments, gives the three of them an enigmatic smile, and says, “I was just making some tea. Would you care to join me?”

“Witches,” Cora mutters under her breath, as Morrell shows them up a small staircase and into the main part of the condo. The table is already set with four mugs, a pot of tea, and a small plate of cookies.

Derek scowls at the tea, scowls at the chair, and scowls at Morrell. Without sitting down, he says, “Tell us where Deucalion is.”

“Whoa, Derek,” Stiles says, “is that how they teach diplomacy where you’re from? Were you raised by wolves?”

Derek gives him a starkly unamused look. Stiles just shrugs, takes a seat, and accepts a cookie. “Thanks,” he says. “Hey, you know, I _really_ would have appreciated knowing that you were a witch and had connections to the supernatural world and all that when I was spilling my heart out to you in the guidance office this past spring.”

“We can’t always get what we want,” Morrell says. She looks at the two Hales and says, “Please sit. I’m not your enemy.”

“No, you just work for him,” Derek says, his voice tight and angry. “You just helped him keep two of my pack members and my _sister_ captive in a bank vault for several months with the intention of forcing me to kill them at the end.”

Morrell sighs. “I _was_ trying to get them out. You just happened to beat me to it.”

Cora sits down and lets Morrell pour her a mug of tea. “You sealed us into that vault. If Stiles hadn’t been there to break the circle, people would have died.”

“But Stiles was there.”

“You couldn’t have known that.”

Morrell gestures to the tea, ready and waiting. “Couldn’t I?”

“This is ridiculous,” Derek says. “Just tell us what Deucalion wants.”

“You,” Morrell says. “He wants you. But not you as you are now. He wants you in pain. Suffering. Forced to kill your own pack. Forced to bow your head to his will.”

Derek seems a little taken off guard by this answer, direct and unnerving as it was. Stiles looks at Morrell and says, quietly, “Why?”

“You know what happened to him, I presume?” Morrell says.

Stiles nods. “Yeah, Gerard ambushed him and put his eyes out with sparklers, as far as I can recall. So I can understand why he’d go after Gerard, or since Gerard isn’t available, any hunter in general. But why Derek? What’d he ever do?”

“Nothing,” Morrell says. “That’s the problem. Derek has done nothing. Just as his mother did nothing.” She lets out a breath. “You have to understand. Deucalion is my alpha, and I will serve him to the best of my ability. It’s all I can do. But he isn’t sane. He’s spent the last six years soaked with blood. He’ll kill any hunter he comes across. He killed his entire pack to absorb their power, and forced any alpha who wants to join him to do the same.”

“That doesn’t have anything to do with me,” Derek says. “ _Or_ with my mother.”

“She was here. She was the alpha of this territory. And she did try to warn Deucalion that Gerard couldn’t be reasoned with. But in Deucalion’s mind, she didn’t do enough. She should have saved him and she didn’t.”

“That’s bullshit,” Cora says.

Morrell doesn’t reply beyond pouring herself some tea.

“How do we stop him?” Stiles asks.

“You don’t,” Morrell says.

Derek slams both hands down on the table. “How do we stop him?”

Morrell’s eyes glint with anger, and something deeper, something unsettling. “I’ve spent the last six years trying to keep Deucalion from sliding into the abyss. I can’t do it. No one can. There might have been a good man underneath the madness once, but all he is now is a killer. He’s stronger than you. Any of you. All of you. And he’s got four other alphas backing him up. He will pick at your life, Derek, strip away everything you care about, leave you as empty and soulless as he is, and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop him.”

Silence sits in the kitchen for several minutes. Then Stiles breaks the moment by saying, “I bet he’d find it pretty difficult to argue with a bazooka.”

“I’m pretty sure you don’t have one of those lying around,” Morrell replies tartly. She looks back at Derek. “You’re thinking of using the eclipse. Don’t. He’s ready for that. He knows that’s when you’ll try to get to him. He’s got fail safes in place.” She stands up. “Deucalion is smart. He’s thought it all through. He’s prepared for anything.”

Stiles takes another cookie and says, “No, he isn’t.”

Morrell gives him a look. “You,” she says. “You’re a seventeen year old boy with no talents, no weapons, no chance. You can’t even protect _yourself_.”

“Thanks for the tea,” Stiles says, “but I really think we should be going. I’d say to let us know if you decide to help us, but actually I don’t think we want your help, because we don’t trust you. Right, Derek?”

Jaw still tightly clenched, Derek nods. Stiles heads for the door. Morrell watches the three of them go.

“What’s your plan?” Derek asks, once they’re back in the Camaro, back on the road.

“Oh, I don’t have a God damned clue,” Stiles says with a shrug. “I was just sick of the way she was talking about us.”

Derek shakes his head a little, smiling despite himself. “Well,” he says, “we’d better come up with one. The eclipse is in three days.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

It takes an entire day of research, bickering, and general debate before they come up with something that might even remotely work. Once Derek and Stiles have agreed on a basic framework, they invite the rest of the pack into the discussion. Stiles invites Scott, even though Derek doesn’t particularly want him there, because they’re finally starting to mend their friendship and he doesn’t want to fuck that up. The only person not invited is Peter. Stiles would be happier if Peter were in a separate galaxy while all this goes down.

He gives them the basic idea and there’s a predictable period of confusion. “Dude, I’m not . . .” Scott says, frowning. “I don’t want to be a jerk, but can you actually _do_ that stuff you’re talking about? I mean, I get that I’ve been out of the loop, but since when can you do magic?”

Stiles sighs a little and pushes one hand through his hair. “I’ve been learning bits and pieces over the summer. Magic is more about . . . using what’s around you, harnessing supernatural energy than like . . . what you might think of as traditional witchcraft. I found the spell in two different places, so I know it’s legit. Just think of it like a recipe. As long as I follow the directions, it should come out okay.”

“Yeah, but, to run with your metaphor, this seems like you’re trying to make crème brulee when you should maybe be starting with mac and cheese,” Erica remarks.

“Well, that’s actually one of the best parts about this spell,” Stiles says. “It _looks_ really impressive, but it’s actually pretty simple. Because it uses the power of karma, which is actually one of the most powerful forces in magic. You know, the concept of ‘what goes around, comes around’. In a way, Deucalion is actually fueling this spell against himself.”

“If Stiles says he can do it, then he’ll do it,” Derek says, with roughly one thousand percent more confidence than Stiles has ever felt in his life. “Let’s hammer out the details.”

Not everyone is sold on the plan at first. Stiles gets in detailed arguments with a lot of people. Most of them are about strategy, capabilities, or timing. But he’s not surprised to find that he gets in a different sort of argument with Scott.

“Look, everyone seems to agree that Deucalion used to be a decent guy,” Scott says. “I don’t think we should go with killing him as our first option. Maybe he can be reasoned with.”

“Dude, I’m all for negotiation, but when the guy’s own emissary has told us there’s no chance, I don’t know what the hell you think we’re going to accomplish,” Stiles says.

“I’m just saying,” Scott says earnestly, “that we shouldn’t go straight to murder. We don’t even know this guy.”

“We know he held Erica, Boyd, and Cora captive for months,” Derek says, and it looks like he might say more, but Stiles gives him a warning glance, a ‘let me handle Scott’ look, that Derek surprisingly obeys.

“I’m not denying that he’s done bad things,” Scott says. “But if there’s any way that we can help him, rather than kill him, I think we should take it.”

“Look, Scott, I respect that you are probably the nicest person in the room, possibly in Beacon Hills in general,” Stiles says, “but no. And I will tell you why. It’s because of four funerals I attended last spring. Four police officers that Jackson killed. We _had_ him captive. We had our chance to kill him. And we didn’t. Because we wanted to save him. And because of that, a bunch of other people died. People who weren’t involved and hadn’t done anything to deserve it.”

“Yeah, but if we _had_ killed Jackson, we wouldn’t have realized Matt was pulling his puppet strings,” Scott argues.

“You don’t know that,” Stiles says. “You _can’t_ know that. If Matt had lost the kanima, he would have had to kill the last couple people himself. He would have screwed up, would’ve been caught. Or he would have stopped killing people. Either way, those four police officers wouldn’t have died.” He huffs out a sigh. “Look, I’m not saying I wasn’t biased against Jackson because of what he did to me. But I don’t think that – ”

“Jackson?” Derek snarls, so suddenly that Stiles is taken aback. It occurs to him, moments too late, that although Derek knew about the rape, he had never found out who had done it. “ _Jackson_ is who hurt you?”

Stiles’ mouth opens and closes. Then he swallows and says, “Yes. And we’re not talking about it in front of everyone.”

Derek doesn’t look like he agrees. “I’m the one who turned him. It’s my responsibility – ”

Cheeks flushed, Stiles retorts, “What Jackson did to me happened a month before we _met_ you, and it had nothing to do with him being a werewolf. He didn’t need super strength to get the best of me. Now we are _done talking about this_ until we have some privacy.”

Derek scowls and looks away, but he shuts up. Stiles takes a moment to collect himself, trying to ignore the way everyone is looking at him. “My only point, Scott, is that we can’t judge killers on who they used to be or who they might be in the future. Everything is too . . . fluid, for that. Yes, maybe there’s a chance we could save Deucalion. But there’s also a chance that if we don’t take our advantage _right now_ , he will kill everyone in this room, slowly and painfully. And I know which one of those two things is more likely. I am not willing to risk _anyone_ in here because Deucalion _might_ be a good guy again someday. That’s not how it works. Regardless of the _reason_ Deucalion went off the rails, he still has to answer for what he’s done.”

Scott’s jaw sets, but then he nods and says, “Yeah. Okay. You’re right.”

“Okay.” Stiles pushes a hand through his hair. “But really, if it helps at all, if everything goes according to plan, Deucalion _will_ have his chance to . . . let me just explain it in detail, okay?”

So they go through the plan again, answer more questions, run it a hundred times, make backup plans for things that could go wrong. It’s not until an hour has gone by that everyone is satisfied and the group breaks up. Isaac decides to go back to Scott’s for a while, to give Derek and Stiles some privacy. Cora goes with Boyd back to his place, for the same reason.

Stiles watches Derek pace around the loft for a few minutes before the alpha finally says, “Jesus, I’m surprised you don’t hate me. I took the person who hurt you and gave him even more power.”

“I won’t lie and say I wasn’t pissed that you gave him the bite,” Stiles says, with a shrug. “I was. But you didn’t know. Nobody knew, because I kept it a secret.”

“That isn’t your fault,” Derek says.

“No, I guess not,” Stiles says. “But I still wonder how different things might have been if I hadn’t.” He gives an uncomfortable little shrug. “Look, it’s done.”

“Yeah.” Derek gives a little nod. “Then what are we going to do about it?”

Stiles says nothing, and looks away.

Derek’s jaw tightens. “Look,” he says, “I understand your policy of not engaging with the bullies. Because reacting would have only brought you more attention, and more trouble. But that’s _not_ how things are going to go here.”

“What are you going to do, Derek?” Stiles asks wearily. “I lost my chance to press charges. There was no evidence. If I had said something, back then . . . but I didn’t. I was afraid and hurt and ashamed so I didn’t, and now he’s off being an American Werewolf in London and there’s nothing _anyone_ can do about that.”

“Do you seriously think that I can’t, or wouldn’t?” Derek says. “I could be on a flight to London in three hours.”

“And do what when you get there?” Stiles asks. “Kick his ass? Oh, yeah, that would make a difference.”

Derek grinds his teeth. “I don’t understand how you can just – just let him get away with it.”

“Yes, you can,” Stiles says, “because you did it, too.”

Derek snarls at him, but then ducks his head, unable to meet Stiles’ gaze. “Yeah, well, I shouldn’t have,” he says. “I did it because I blamed myself. And that’s why you’re doing it, too.”

“No, I’m doing it because it won’t make any God damned difference,” Stiles says. “Yes, back then, it was because I was ashamed of myself, because I thought I had done something to deserve it, because I felt like I should have been able to defend myself. But that was back then. I didn’t have the courage when it mattered, and now he can’t be prosecuted, and flying over there to beat him up will accomplish nothing.”

“It’ll make me feel better,” Derek growls. Stiles just sighs. “Okay, fine,” Derek says, “but try to look at this from my point of view. I made a mistake, when I gave Jackson the bite. I was so desperate to build a pack that I didn’t think about the sort of person he was. So now anyone he hurts because he has that power, it’s on me. How do you think I feel, knowing I gave that sort of power to . . .”

“A rapist,” Stiles snaps. “Just call him what he is.”

Derek’s jaw twitches again. “Okay, yes, I gave that power to a rapist. And now it’s on my head. Just like the people he murdered as the kanima are on my head. Because ‘I didn’t know what would happen’ is a really shitty excuse.”

“Well, is there like a werewolf watch list we can put him on or something?” Stiles asks.

After a pause, Derek says, “I can talk to his alpha. I set him up with that pack. I need to come clean with her about what he is.”

“Fine,” Stiles says. “Do . . . what you think is right. Just don’t fucking involve me.”

“Okay,” Derek says. He shakes his head. “I – I’m sorry. I didn’t – ”

“Jesus Christ, don’t,” Stiles says. “Just don’t, okay?”

Derek winces but shuts up.

“I have to go,” Stiles says. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? To get the stuff we need for Tuesday night.”

“Yeah,” Derek says. “Okay.”

Stiles leaves the loft without saying anything else. He turns his phone off and drives home. His father is sitting at the kitchen table, working. He looked up when Stiles comes in. “Hey, you. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Stiles stands in the kitchen for a minute, awkward and uncomfortable, and wipes the back of his forearm over his eyes. He sees his father start to frown. “Will you just . . . sit with me, for a while?”

“Sure.” His father pushes away his work and gets up, giving Stiles’ shoulder a squeeze. “How about that new show you’ve been watching, with the zombies? Will I like it?”

“Yeah, the main character’s a sheriff, it’s kickass,” Stiles says, settling on the sofa next to his father. He puts in the first disc and then sits next to him.

“You want to talk?” his father asks.

Stiles shakes his head and curls up next to him, resting his head on his father’s shoulder. The sheriff wraps an arm around him, pulling him into a half hug, and accepts this, putting the television show on without another word.

They sit like that for a while. Stiles comes alive again by degrees, first by muttering comments about the television show, then talking to the characters, and finally engaging with his father again with, “Did you _see_ that?” and telling the sheriff about how some of the special effects are done. Sheriff Stilinski sits there with him for hours, never once giving the appearance of being needed anywhere else.

When the DVD ends, Stiles thumbs through the menus in silence for a minute before he says, “Dad? Do you think I’m a coward?”

“What?” Sheriff Stilinski seems honestly started by the question. “No. _No_. Jesus, kid, you’re the bravest person I’ve ever met. Why would you even ask me that?”

“I just . . .” Stiles’ voice trails off. “Derek found out that Jackson was the one who hurt me. He’s upset. He wants to do something about it, and I . . . I just don’t see the point. I mean, what’s he going to do, fly to London and beat him up? It won’t make any difference. But then I thought, Jackson’s not going to change. So anyone he hurts, that’s my fault.”

“Okay, absolutely not,” his father says. He takes Stiles’ chin in his hand and forces Stiles to look at him. “What Jackson does is _not_ your responsibility. _He_ is the only one who’s at fault for what he did to you, or what he does to anyone else.”

Stiles’ gaze drops. “I know that,” he says. “I know it, I do, but I . . . I don’t feel it. If I had said something . . .”

“Let’s take a step back here,” his father says. “Okay? And talk about this rationally.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Let’s pretend for a minute that you had said something right away. That you had come straight to me, or gone to the hospital. Yes, there would have been physical evidence then. But it still would have been his word against yours that it was nonconsensual. He . . .” Stilinski’s voice wobbles, but then steadies. “You had both been drinking – and no, I am _not_ saying that you deserved it because you were drinking – all I’m saying is that he would have said you came on to him and he was too drunk to realize he was hurting you. He would have gotten his friends to back him up. His father is the DA and he would have known _exactly_ how to handle the case to get it dropped.”

Sheriff Stilinski reaches out and takes both Stiles’ hands in his own. “I’m not saying that your decision was a right one or a wrong one. I’m just saying that there are reasons why rape is one of the most underreported crimes in the country. And you’re smart enough that you _knew_ what could happen. That you knew you would be risking a lot of pain and stress, that you would have been risking my career and our life here in Beacon Hills. Jesus, Stiles, nobody blames you for not thinking clearly in those moments. I think you made the best decision you could.”

Stiles wipes a hand over his eyes and leans into his father’s embrace. “Thanks,” he chokes out. His father hugs him for a minute, rubbing a rough hand over his back. “But . . . afterwards . . .”

“Leaving aside all the supernatural garbage for a few minutes, the situation still hadn’t changed.”

“I should have kept the photographs, the e-mails he sent me . . .”

“Kid, even if you had done that, he had edited them so you couldn’t tell it was him. At most we could have gotten him on stalking or harassment.” Sheriff Stilinski shakes his head. “I don’t blame you for not wanting to face those in your inbox every time you wanted to check your mail.”

Stiles huffs out a sigh and pulls away, still wiping at his eyes. He reaches down into his bag and pulls out the deck of Tarot cards he had gotten earlier, shuffling them to distract himself. “What about now? What do you think I should do?”

“I think you should do whatever you think is right,” his father replies.

“Derek’s . . . really upset,” Stiles says. “At the idea that he gave such a terrible person that sort of power. But at the same time, it’s not like he was a werewolf when he . . . when he raped me.” He has to swallow hard to get the words out. “So I don’t know that it matters in the long-term. Back when Jackson was the kanima, I just wanted to kill him. I thought that would fix everything. Why does it seem so pointless now?”

“Well, part of that is probably distance,” Stilinski says, matter-of-fact. “Jackson isn’t in your face anymore. He’s a continent and an ocean away. You want to just close this chapter and move on . . . which means you’d rather not talk or think about it. I don’t know whether that’s healthy or not.”

Stiles starts laying out the cards at random. “Maybe I just don’t want Derek to become a killer for me.”

“That seems like a good thing to want, kid,” Sheriff Stilinski says. “Don’t feel bad about that.”

“I just . . . I hate the thought of Jackson hurting other people. No, it wouldn’t be my fault. I guess we’re all only responsible for our own choices, right? I’ve been doing all this magical research lately. On karma.” He holds up one of the cards: the Wheel of Fortune. “What goes around comes around. But fate can’t do everything by itself. Sometimes it uses people as an instrument. So Jackson should get what’s coming around . . . but maybe only if someone bothers to step up and send it to him.”

His father regards him quietly for a few moments. “What do you _want_ , Stiles?”

Stiles drops the cards onto the table. “I just want to stop hurting.”

An expression of immense pain crosses his father’s face, there and gone before Stiles can really see it. “Okay,” he says, keep his voice even. “And it’s obvious that Jackson still being out there is bothering you, right? So maybe it’ll be necessary to do something about that, before you can keep healing. It doesn’t have to be about revenge, Stiles. You don’t have to hurt Jackson to get back at him for hurting you. It can just be about keeping him from hurting other people. In the end, the only thing you can take responsibility for is your own choices.”

“Yeah?” Stiles glances up at him and then leans against his shoulder. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. I’ll think about that.”

“Okay.” Stilinski rubs his back for a minute. “Why don’t you put that second disc on? I’m starting to like this show.”

Stiles nods and manages a smile. “Will do.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Action! Magic! Excitement! Derek in his underwear!

“My sideburns are _not_ that bad,” Derek says, glowering across the table at Stiles and Lydia. “And don’t roll your eyes at me,” he adds in a snarl.

“Honey,” Lydia says, “we took photographs of you in your shifted form. Don’t make me use them.”

Derek’s scowl deepens. His gaze shifts to the mirror. “It doesn’t look right.”

“It doesn’t have to be perfect,” Stiles reminds him. “Deucalion and the others have never even met you before, in either form. If we make your sideburns a little too long or your fangs a little too small, they won’t know the difference. Oh, that reminds me, fangs.” He rummages in the bag from the costume shop and pulls them out.

“This is the stupidest idea ever,” Derek says.

“Here I thought I heard you defending me yesterday,” Stiles says.

“Yeah, the magic part of the plan, that all makes sense,” Derek says. “But this . . . get that razor away from me, Lydia. If you shave my eyebrows, I will tear out your throat.”

“I have to at least trim them,” Lydia says, her tone exasperated.

“Look, this _is_ part of the magic,” Stiles says, to distract Derek, who really does look like he’s about to start pitching a fit. “It’s like . . . Druidic sleight-of-hand more than anything else. That’s what _all_ of this is. Misdirection, smoke and mirrors. Trust me, Derek. This is going to work. Now let Lydia trim your eyebrows. There’s something else we need to talk about.”

“What?” Derek growls.

“Peter,” Stiles says. He sees Lydia’s shoulders tense. “I think we can all agree that we don’t need Uncle Psycho becoming an alpha again. We need to find a way to remove him from the picture. Not permanently,” he says, seeing Derek start to frown. “I mean, we just need to send him on a wild goose chase of some sort while all the shit goes down.”

Derek glances at him, then at Lydia. Then he nods a little. “I know that you don’t trust him. I don’t, either.”

He looks tired. _Wounded_. Stiles says, “Look, Derek, I understand why you keep him around. I know that he’s your family and . . . it’s complicated. And I think that at least to a certain extent, we can understand why he did some of the shit he did. In his shoes, I probably would’ve gone on a killing spree, too. No, we don’t approve of his methods, but . . . he clearly _does_ care about you, and Cora, at least to a certain extent. I’m not saying we need to put him in the river. We just need to be . . . careful. And that means that I don’t want him anywhere near any alphas during a lunar eclipse.”

“He has to know that’s when we’ll make our move,” Lydia says. “It’s literally the only time we could do something without it being suicide.”

“Yeah. We’ll have to misdirect him on the place. And by ‘misdirect’ I don’t mean ‘tell him to meet us somewhere else’. I mean ‘allow him to overhear us agreeing to meet somewhere’ or ‘let him steal your phone and look at a text where we agree where to meet’. He’ll know that we won’t want him there.”

Derek glances at his watch. “He’ll be back in about an hour. I’ll brief him on the plan – at least the highlights. And then I’ll leave my phone where he can get it. Once you’ve left, send me a couple texts about where you _actually_ want to ‘meet’.” He frowns. “Not actually actually, but fake actually. Jesus. Subterfuge is not my forte.”

Stiles cracks a grin at this. “No, really? But you’re so good at creeping and lurking.”

“Done,” Lydia announces, leaning back to admire her handiwork. “It’s not bad,” she says. “What about the fangs?”

“We’ll have to put them on right before we go. They get cemented on, holds for about twenty-four hours, so unless we don’t want Derek able to eat for the next day and a half . . .”

“This plan just gets better and better,” Derek mutters. He glances up. “The others are back,” he says, although Stiles can’t yet hear their footsteps. He assumes that Derek can, and starts packing up the makeup. The door to the loft opens a few minutes and the three betas – Isaac, Erica, and Boyd – walk in. Boyd and Erica are holding hands. They still both look a little tired, but overall have recovered well from their captivity. “How’d it go?” Derek asks.

“Well, Ms. Morrell officially thinks we’re stupid,” Erica says.

“Good,” Derek says with a nod. “But she’ll carry the message?”

“She said she would tell him,” Boyd says, giving a shrug. “I think she actually will.”

“Well, we’re banking on her wanting to resolve things one way or another,” Stiles says. “I think she basically has the opinion that if we want to walk into certain death, that’s our business.”

Isaac pushes both hands through his hair. “This is gonna work, right?”

“We’ll find out,” Stiles says. He gets to his feet. “Almost ready. Derek, get that ridiculous stuff off your face,” he adds, and Derek growls at him. Several of the others laugh, and they start returning Derek to his regular human face. “I just can’t figure out where your eyebrows go,” Stiles says thoughtfully, and Derek just sighs heavily because they’ve had this conversation multiple times.

A few hours before the eclipse, they’re back in the car. Stiles is tense and keyed up, and they don’t talk much. He’s changed into a set of light blue scrubs that he bought off the rack at the Good Will. He’s spent enough time at hospitals, thanks to being friends with Scott, that he knows what to do. The key is to look purposeful. Most people are usually too busy with their own work to stop you, as long as you look like you belong there.

Stiles pulls the Jeep up to a side door. “Keep the engine running,” he says.

Derek grumbles something about being the getaway driver being beneath his dignity. But subtlety is the name of the game here, and Derek isn’t subtle. So he agrees to wait while Stiles heads into the assisted living facility. He grabs a clipboard and a pencil so he can study it as he walks, so it looks like he’s doing something important like bed checks or med checks or whatever checks they do at an old folks home. It’s unnecessary. He doesn’t run into anyone as he goes down the hallway.

The door to the small apartment is unlocked, and the knob twists easily underneath his hand. He hears Gerard’s familiar voice, a little more gravelly than it had been before, as he comes inside. “I’ve been expecting . . .” he starts to say, as he swivels the wheelchair around. Then his gaze falls on Stiles and it’s clear that whoever he’s been expecting, it hasn’t been Stiles.

“Hey, old man,” Stiles says. “Remember me?”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“Here’s how it’s going to be,” Stiles says to Gerard, who’s giving him a look that’s more amused than anything else. “I’m breaking you out of this joint. I’m going to wheel you down the hallway and outside. You’re going to let me, and you’re not going to kick up a fuss or make any noise, because if you do, I will put this – ” He takes out a tiny blade, barely the size of a nail file, “right here.” He taps Gerard’s neck just behind his ear.

“Oh, you will, will you,” Gerard says, coughing a little and dabbing at his lips with a handkerchief.

Stiles nods. He kneels in front of the wheelchair so they’re on eye level and meets Gerard’s gaze. “I will put this knife up into your brain and disappear. I have a ride waiting for me. I have no discernible motive for killing you and have several people all willing to swear I was somewhere else tonight. This weapon is run-of-the-mill with basically no identifying factors. I have absolutely zero problem killing you and leaving your dead ass in a hallway. Do you believe me?”

Gerard studies him for a moment, the way Stiles’ gaze never wavers. “Yes,” he says, “but you’re just going to kill me anyway, so does it matter?”

“Gerard, if I just wanted you dead, you’d be dead already. Let’s go.”

He wheels Gerard down the hallway and out the side entrance he had come in. Derek’s out of the car the moment he comes into view. He lifts Gerard up and puts him in the passenger's seat. Stiles secures the old man’s wrists and ankles with zip ties, and then puts duct tape over his mouth. As they pull away, he starts to breathe again. It had been much easier than anticipated.

“Look at it this way, Gerard,” he says, as Derek turns onto the main road. “This is actually going to work out pretty well for you. We’re going to let you finish a job that should have been done a long time ago.”

Gerard glances over his shoulder at Stiles, but doesn’t try to say anything through the duct tape. They’ve agreed that they’re not going to take Gerard back to the loft. On the off chance – and Stiles sure as hell hopes that it’s an off chance – that something goes wrong, they don’t need Gerard knowing where Derek lives.

But they can’t bring him anywhere public because the eclipse is still hours away; they can’t risk anyone finding them. Scott’s house is out because he wants his mother as far away from all of this as possible, and Stiles doesn’t dare volunteer his own because he hasn’t told his father what they’re up to and doesn’t risk him finding out ahead of him. He’s not sure what his father would think of this plan, what he would think of his seventeen-year-old son explaining that this all works out because what goes around comes around.

“To each is given what he gave,” he murmurs as he stares at pack of Tarot cards he’s holding in his trembling hands.

“What’s that?” Derek asks.

“Nothing,” Stiles says, shaking his head.

They wound up at Peter’s apartment. It’s under a fake name, and has a back entrance, and although he wasn’t thrilled with the idea, Derek bitchfaced at him until he agreed. If something goes wrong, Peter can move. It’s not like he’s particularly attached to the apartment itself.

Now Gerard is sitting in a metal folding chair in the middle of the living room, which Peter has cleared of furniture to make more room. There’s a circle of mountain ash around them to block out extra supernatural energy, but the gang’s all there. Erica, Isaac, and Boyd are in a pile in the corner. Peter is perched on the windowsill, watching Stiles work with an expression that’s somehow amused, guarded, and hungry all at the same time. Lydia is as far from him as the room will allow, reading some dusty old textbook. Cora paces restlessly; Scott is watching the door. Derek sits with his legs folded underneath himself, just outside the circle, his gaze fixed on Stiles with studied intensity.

Gerard hasn’t made any move to escape, which is really the intelligent thing to do, given that he’s in a room full of werewolves, most of whom want him dead for a variety of reasons. That viscous black goo is still trickling from half his orifices (or possibly all of them; Stiles isn’t about to check) and he’s making annoying snuffling noises. Stiles ignores them, because he’s not about to blow the old man’s nose for him.

He takes out the deck of Tarot Cards and shuffles them on the floor in front of himself. Then he closes his eyes and continues to shuffle. He breathes deep, centers himself, focuses on the meaning of the spell. When he opens his eyes, he picks up the top card and lays it down. The Wheel of Fortune. Just as it should be. He spares a somewhat surprised thought that he actually seems good at this stuff.

“Hold this,” he says, putting the card in Gerard’s hands without giving him a choice. Gerard glances down at it and frowns slightly. For the first time, he tries to speak through the duct tape. Stiles ignores him. He licks his lips, which are dry and cracked from nerves. “The Wheel of Fortune. To each is given what he gave. The beauty is in the balance. The ripples return to the caster of the stone.”

He repeats the phrase twice, for a total of three times. He feels _something_ , some nebulous energy, rush out of him. It leaves him tired and strangely hollow.

The moment of silence lingers. Then Scott asks, “Did it work?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, because he _knows_ that it did. He can feel it in his bones, a permanence to what he’s just done, to the fact that he’s turned himself into an instrument of Fate.

“What now?” Cora asks, still a little sharp, angular, but not as angry as she often is.

Derek glances at his watch. “Now, we wait.”

Stiles is quiet while the others try to distract themselves. The eclipse is still hours away, but before that, they’ll split into groups. A necessary precaution, because of Peter. They can’t all leave at once. Cora and Lydia will leave last and head to the fake location. Since Peter hasn’t been invited, they’re who he’ll have to follow. Stiles is ninety-five percent certain that Peter won’t hurt his niece, and frankly, he trusts Lydia to take care of herself. But it will be a while before they need to start making preparations.

He sits there on the floor, watching black goo drip down Gerard’s chin. He leans forward so some of it falls onto the floor, rather than his lap. It’s strange, because he knows that he’s doing something amazing and impossible, but it’s impossible to say whether he’s thwarting the laws of nature or aiding them.

He’s an instrument of Fate and he should feel powerful, but instead he feels small and insignificant, like all of it is meaningless even though he’s doing magic to save his friends. Because the world will continue to spin, the wheel will continue to turn, and even if he’s on top today, he’ll just be back on the bottom tomorrow.

In the end, he thinks of what his father says. “The only thing I’m responsible for is my own choices,” he says.

Several people turn and look at him, even though he hadn’t really been talking very loudly. “What?” Scott asks.

“Nothing, I was just thinking,” Stiles says. He dips his finger into the puddle of black liquid and starts to draw a spiral on Peter’s fake wood floor. “About the spell. And karma. I was thinking, I think I know what I want to do about Jackson now. Because . . . it can’t be about revenge, right? Because revenge doesn’t work, and it isn’t right.”

“What makes you say that?” Lydia asks, glancing up.

“Because I’ve seen it.” Stiles glances around the room and his gaze settles on Peter. “When you killed Kate . . .” he says, and he sees Peter’s shoulders tighten, almost imperceptibly. “What did you feel?”

Peter’s gaze stays on him for a moment, steady, unwavering, unnerving. Then, quietly, he says, “Nothing.”

Stiles swallows, but nods. “That’s what I thought. That’s why you tried to kill Allison afterwards. Because it wasn’t enough. Because . . . it didn’t make things better, _couldn’t_ make things better. That’s not what I want. Revenge can’t undo what Jackson did to me. I just want to make sure he doesn’t do the same thing to anybody else.

“Revenge . . . only makes things worse.” Stiles gestures to the ever-widening spiral on the floor. “Like this. Gerard tried to kill Deucalion, and now Deucalion wants revenge, but for everyone he hurts, hunters will just go after werewolves, and the larger the spiral gets, the more people are pulled in, people who had nothing to do with the original vendetta.” He tilts his chin towards Erica and Boyd, who both nod a little in understanding. “So it can’t be about revenge. That’s the whole thing with karma. It’s not revenge. It’s _justice_.”

“So what do you want to do?” Scott asks, his brow furrowing a little.

Stiles tells them. His gaze lingers for a few moments on Lydia to make sure it’s all right with her. She gives him a small nod, her face blank of expression. Derek’s frown deepens for a few moments, but then smoothes out.

“I’ll take care of it,” he says. “Unless . . . you want to be there?”

“No,” Stiles says. “I just need to know it’s done.”

They start getting ready.

Derek drives the Camaro with Erica in the back and Isaac in the passenger seat. Stiles takes the Jeep. Gerard is loaded into the passenger seat, and Scott and Boyd climb in the back. Boyd keeps a firm hand around Gerard’s throat, just in case he thinks about trying anything. They drive back to the bank. The front door is chained closed, but they find one in the back that’s open.

The foyer is quite large, about half the size of the school’s gymnasium, and their footsteps echo among the marble steps and pillars. Stiles thinks absently that it looks more like a museum than a bank, and wonders if the building was repurposed at some point. Scott and Boyd have Gerard between them, held tightly. Derek is waiting with the others. He scowls, showing his fangs. The rest of them are still in their human forms. Stiles checks his watch. The eclipse is eight minutes away.

“Well, well,” an accented, cultured voice says from somewhere above them. All of them glance up to see Deucalion coming down the stairs, each move deliberate. Morrell is behind him, stone-faced. Deucalion just looks amused.

“We’re surrounded,” Scott says quietly. Stiles just gives a little nod to show that he’s heard. That’s expected. He sees a lithe young woman with dark hair, a tall man with a shaved head, and a set of twins gathered among the pillars.

Derek stands at the front of their group, and the others stand behind him, spreading out into a V. That will help keep their exit open, but if all goes according to plans A, B, or even C, there won’t be any fighting. Derek’s back and shoulders are tense, and Stiles steps up so he’s just behind the alpha and to his right. Meanwhile, Boyd and Isaac drag Gerard forward and shove him to his knees a few feet in front of Derek. Boyd stays there, holding him, while Isaac resumes his place in the formation.

Deucalion studies the pack, his glasses hiding his eyes and keeping his gaze opaque. “It’s an interesting opening move,” he says.

Derek points at Gerard in a sharp, angry gesture. “Consider it a peace offering,” he says.

“You want me to believe that you’re interested in peace?” Deucalion chuckles. “Marin, you didn’t tell me he was such a comedian.”

Derek scowls, and for a minute Stiles is afraid that he won’t stick to the plan. But he does, even though his jaw is clenched with anger. “I understand that what happened back then was terrible. It shouldn’t have happened. But it’s over. We’ve brought you the perpetrator. Kill him and get off my territory and we’ll call it done.”

“Do you think that this is all about killing him?” Deucalion asks. “One paltry, pathetic man? No. I scheme much bigger than that. I – ”

“I don’t care,” Derek interrupts. “I don’t want any part of your schemes. I want you gone, so kill him and go.”

“Such hostility,” Deucalion says, with a disapproving note in his voice, even though he’s still smiling. The betas clearly want to start snarling at him, but so far they’re holding it in check. Stiles does a quick visual check on each of them, sees the way Boyd’s fists clench and unclench, the way Erica shifts from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable this close to the prison they were held in. Scott’s still scowling but his gaze is fixed on Gerard, because he clearly doesn’t put it past him to try to run.

Stiles checks on the other alphas after that. Kali’s face is faintly amused and Ennis has thunderclouds on his expression. The twins just look blank, which Stiles can sympathize with, because Deucalion is _still talking_ even though it’s quite obvious that nobody there gives a damn about what he has to say.

“But if it’s so important to you,” Deucalion finally says, “why don’t you kill him? And let that be your peace offering.”

Stiles freezes, his hands clenching down on the Wheel of Fortune card that he’s been trying not to mangle from nervousness. Deucalion _knows_ , he senses the trap; he may not be aware of the details but he knows that it’s there somewhere. Stiles forces himself to let out a breath. They planned for this, they have a contingency for this. Worst comes to worst, he’ll rip up the tarot card, thus nulling out the spell, whereupon Derek can kill Gerard without Deucalion ever having been the wiser. It won’t have gained them anything in the long run, but they’ll get out with their skin intact.

But Derek doesn’t flinch away from Deucalion’s words. “Maybe you’re mistaking this for some sort of negotiation,” he says. “So let me put it to you plainly. I don’t want anything to do with you. I will _never_ be part of your pack. I don’t even consider what you _have_ to be a pack. You’re just a group of murderers who have fallen in with each other. I have a pack. I don’t care how much power I would gain from killing them. They belong to me and _nobody_ will be laying a finger on them. What happened to you sucked, but it was _his_ responsibility.” Derek nudges Gerard with his foot. “Not my mother’s, and certainly not mine. If you don’t want to accept this as the peace offering it is, fine. We’ll go to war. But the smart thing for you to do would be to kill the man who blinded you, and walk away.”

Stiles swallows and checks his watch. The eclipse will be on them at any moment. Deucalion knows that as surely as any of them do. If he’s going to make a move, he’ll do it now.

Deucalion smiles at Derek. “This changes nothing,” he says. “I’ll get what I came here for, from you, one way or another. But I suppose it _would_ be rude to refuse your gift.”

Without any further warning, one clawed hand comes down and rips across Gerard’s throat. Blood and more of the viscous black goo goes everywhere. Several of the betas flinch back. Gerard hits the floor with a heavy thud, dead before he hits the ground.

Stiles feels the tarot card in his hand _quiver_.

“To each is given what he gave,” he says, not even cognizant of the words coming out of his mouth. It’s as if a greater force has simply moved into his body, taking him over. “The beauty is in the balance. The ripples return to the caster of the stone.”

Deucalion staggers backwards.

Blood goes everywhere. His throat has been tore wide open by unseen, un _real_ hands. He hits the ground but tries to struggle to his feet. Kali starts forward with a snarl, but stops when Deucalion shoves himself back up to his knees.

Stiles’ watch beeps.

The shadow of the earth covers the moon.

Deucalion falls face first to the bank floor. Blood starts to pool around him on the marble. He shudders and then goes still.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Ennis blurts out.

Derek takes a few steps backwards, melting into the shadows while everyone’s gaze is trained on Deucalion’s body.

Morrell kneels next to Deucalion and rolls him over. She takes the glasses off, looks into his cloudy eyes, and then folds them and tucks them into her jacket. “He’s dead,” she says. She looks up at Stiles. “The wheel of fortune?”

“To each is given what he gave,” Stiles returns, with a nod. “If he had been willing to let Gerard live, he would have lived. He killed himself as much as anyone in this room killed him.”

Morrell’s face takes on an expression of sorrow for a few moments. Then she rises to her feet and simply walks away. The betas let her walk through their V-shape and she’s gone.

Kali starts forward with another snarl. “If you think the eclipse will stop me from ripping you to shreds with my bare hands,” she says, “you don’t know how wrong you are. Six on four? I’ll tear your head right off your shoulders, little boy.”

“No, you won’t.” Derek steps forward again. The light from their flashlights glances over his pointed ears, his ridged brow. It glints off his fangs.

Ennis makes a noise like someone kicked him in the gut. “That – that’s _impossible_ ,” he grinds out.

“Nothing’s impossible when you’ve got a good enough Emissary,” Derek says.

Ennis frowns and Kali growls, and Stiles says, “Oh, we’re not confusing you, are we? You two did have Emissaries at some point, right? Before Deucalion manipulated you into killing off your entire pack so you could join his little death-squad there?”

Kali’s face twists in rage, and she starts forward, but Ennis grabs her by the wrist. He’s looking at Derek in a combination of fear and anger.

“I have no problem with any of you,” Derek says. “Deucalion played you the way he tried to play me. He’s dead, and you have no reason to seek revenge for him. It’s over. Get off my territory, never come back, and we’ll call it square.”

Ennis takes a step back. He tugs Kali with him. She glowers at him, but then casts a look at Derek’s features. Then she lets Ennis pull her away. The twins glance at each other, then walk away without another word.

Scott and Isaac both scramble to follow, climbing the stairs and going up to the balcony which overlooks the front entrance. Stiles follows a little more slowly. He gets up just in time to see the four of them leave the bank. Kali lifts her head to the sky and _howls_ , or at least tries to, but it comes out as a strangled scream. Ennis puts an arm around her shoulder and keeps her moving. They head west. The twins exit a moment later and head east. One of them glances over their shoulder to look at Kali and Ennis, but he doesn’t stop or slow.

“That’s it, I guess,” Stiles says. “A few hiccups, but . . .”

Exhaustion overwhelms him, the bone-deep exhaustion from the magic he’s done combined with the stress of several sleepless days. He feels hollowed out and empty. Scott grabs him as he sinks to his knees.

“I’ll take him home,” Derek says.

“Better get all that makeup off before anyone sees,” Boyd says to him.

Derek scowls through the fangs. “I still can’t believe they fell for it.” He shakes his head a little. “C’mon, Stiles, I’ve got you,” he says, his tone surprisingly gentle. “Let’s get out of here.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

It takes nearly an hour to get all of Derek’s werewolf makeup off, and he looks strange afterwards, with his eyebrows being a thin, straggly line instead of their usual weapons of mass expression. Stiles has the giggles for some reason – it’s just been such a long time since he’s gotten any decent sleep – and he keeps running his fingers over them, which makes Derek growl.

After some debate, they had agreed that they wanted to stick together until the eclipse was over. It’s a long one, over two hours, so they crash back at Derek’s loft. Cora and Lydia are already there. “Did he figure it out?” Derek asks them.

“Within about two minutes,” Cora says. “He gave me this disappointed look and said ‘et tu, Cora?’ and then fucked off somewhere.”

“What a wanker,” Stiles says, and starts snickering again.

Derek just shakes his head and dumps Stiles on the sofa. He’s barely closed his eyes when his phone rings. He sees that it’s his father, so he picks up. “What’s up, daddy-o?”

There’s a pregnant pause. “Are you drunk or high?” his father replies.

“Uh, I actually think I might be a little high,” Stiles says, “but only on endorphins and adrenaline, that which my own body produces to protect me in moments of stress. Sorry. Just tired. What’s going on?”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.” His father’s voice is slow, carefully measured. “Being in that two bodies were found in a closed bank downtown.”

“Shit, already?” Stiles says, wondering how. He had figured they would have a few days before the bodies were found, possibly even longer. The nursing home would report Gerard missing, but nobody would think to look in the bank, and they hadn’t made any noise for concerned citizens to report. “Anonymous tip?”

“Got it in one,” Stilinski says.

“Morrell, probably,” Stiles says. “Uh, but yeah, we’re all fine. It’s taken care of, it’s all good. And nobody here is guilty of a thing. Gerard and Deucalion killed each other. Mutually assured destruction. It all worked out.”

“I can’t help but wonder how a man with zip-tied hands could have torn another man’s throat out,” Stilinski replies.

There’s another pause. “Magic?” Stiles says.

He can just picture the look on his father’s face, that ‘I’m not believing this bullshit’ look. “You and I are going to have a talk about this,” he finally says, “but for now I have work to do. I’ll see you tonight?”

Stiles opens his mouth to say he’s probably going to sleep at Derek’s, but then has a moment of epiphany and realizes that it wasn’t actually a question or a request. “Uh, yeah. I’ll be home when the eclipse is over. It’ll be around midnight.”

“I’ll wait up.” His father hangs up without saying goodbye.

Derek’s glowering at him. It takes Stiles a minute to realize that he’s frustrated because he couldn’t hear the conversation through the phone, the way he normally would have been able to. “Holy hell,” he says, “next time there’s an eclipse, I’m going to make you get drunk just so you can know what it’s like.”

Derek turns from annoyed to incredulous, and several of the others snicker. “Seriously, Stiles?”

Stiles ignores him. “It’s fine,” he says. “Dad’s suspicious as hell and he’s going to be pissed off that I didn’t give him a heads-up, but he’s not going to _arrest_ me or anything.”

“Well, I’m going with you when you go to explain it to him,” Derek says.

“Okay, fine,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes.

They sit around and play board games. Scott and Derek are finally starting to loosen up in each other’s presence. Stiles has hope that one day they might actually get along, but there’s no reason to push things. They order pizza and try to forget that they saw two people die that evening. It’s less difficult than it should be.

Around eleven thirty, the moon starts to emerge again. Stiles watches Derek strain and push himself to shift, doing it in little increments until he’s finally able to again. He thinks about telling him to take it easy, but knows that it won’t take. Derek has been through a lot lately. There’s no point in antagonizing him when he obviously feels vulnerable.

Once they’re all fully able to shift and feel back to normal, they split up to go home. Derek agrees to drive Stiles home. Scott gets annoyed, but Stiles manages to pacify him by asking Scott if he wants to follow them to make sure Stiles gets there okay. For a moment it seems like Derek might protest, but then he keeps his mouth shut.

When they get back to the Stilinski house, the sheriff is still up, as promised, sitting at the kitchen table. He points at the two chairs across from him. “Sit.” It’s not a request.

Stiles sits, and tugs Derek down next to him. His father points an index finger at them and says, “Talk.”

“We kidnapped Gerard from the assisted living facility,” Stiles says calmly. “We put a spell on him to reflect damage back at whoever dealt it. Then we let Deucalion kill him.”

Sheriff Stilinski frowns. “He didn’t heal? Was that the spell?”

“No, that was because of the eclipse,” Stiles says, and shrugs. “Ms. Morrell said he had safeguards in place for it, but he figured we would come at him head on. He didn’t even know any of us were capable of magic.”

The sheriff sighs and pushes both hands through his hair. “Neither did I.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything.

“Stiles, you basically murdered two men tonight.”

“Two men who would have undoubtedly gotten the death penalty if one _tenth_ of what they had done could have been proven in a court of law,” Stiles replies. “Sorry, Dad, I just . . . I’m sorry if you’re afraid I’m a budding psychopath, but I’m not going to feel bad about this. I was protecting my friends, my _pack_. I’m not going to go out and start murdering innocents for the joy of it, but if I had to do it again, I would.”

His father regards him for a long minute, then sighs. “Okay. I can’t argue about most of that, so . . . maybe we should talk about it later.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, but he’s pretty sure they’ll never talk about it again. “Anyway, I’m wiped out. I think I’m going to head to bed. Can, uh . . . can Derek stay?” He feels a blush rising into his cheeks. His father arches his eyebrows. “I just, uh, I sleep better when he’s around. Fewer nightmares.”

“Stiles, I don’t know if . . .”

Stiles clears his throat. “Hey, uh, Derek? Can I talk to my dad alone for a few minutes?”

Derek frowns, but nods and stands. “I’ll be out back,” he says, and heads out the back door of the house.

Stiles waits until he hears the back door close. Then he rubs a hand through his hair. “Look, Dad,” he says, “yeah, Derek and I kind of have a thing. But we won’t be having sex under your roof, I can absolutely promise you that.”

“I know that _you_ know that,” Stilinski says. “But Derek’s older, and he could expect . . .”

“No,” Stiles says. “Stop that train of thought right there. Derek would never do that. He _understands_ , Dad.” He forces himself to look up, meet his father’s gaze, will his father to understand what he’s trying to say without wanting to give away Derek’s secrets. “He understands.”

He sees it then, sees it hit his father, the impact that Derek had gone through something the same or similar. The sheriff closes his eyes for a few moments, then rubs his hand back through his hair. “Okay,” he says. “If . . . if having him here helps, then okay.”

“It does. It really, really does,” Stiles says. “I mean, I just feel safe with him right there.”

His father sighs. “Okay,” he says. “Come on, it’s late, We all need to get some sleep.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. He stands up and walks over to the back door, opens it up to peer out. Derek is sitting on the back porch, staring moodily into the distance. “C’mon,” he says. “It’s nap time.”

Derek stands and heads back inside. He gives Sheriff Stilinski a somewhat wary look, and then a nod. Stiles is already pulling him up the stairs. He’s been in Stiles’ room before, of course, but not for months. “You’re sure you want me to stay?” he asks, as Stiles kicks off his shoes and pulls off the plaid shirt he’s wearing along with his T-shirt.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, then blinks and adds hastily, “I mean, presuming that you want to.”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees. He tugs off his shirt, then starts to step out of his pants before frowning and saying, “Is this okay?”

“I’m not going to ask you to sleep in your jeans,” Stiles says, then sees Derek’s face and says, “Yeah, it’s fine. Uh, presuming that you’re wearing underwear, anyway. Actually, I have to confess I’m somewhat curious as to whether you wear boxers or briefs. I’m a boxer man myself,” he adds, stripping off his pants and kicking them in the vague direction of the hamper. They’ve slept in the same room before, but always after falling asleep to the television or on the sofa. They’ve never just prepared to go to bed together.

He has to admit to a moment of awkwardness when Derek gets his jeans off to reveal the boxer briefs he’s wearing underneath. They’re normal enough, pale gray with a black waistband, and Stiles wouldn’t have any problem with them except, well . . . the package they conceal is fairly obviously larger than standard. He wants to laugh, it’s kind of funny, but then he’s remembering Jackson, and pain, and he’s seen Jackson in briefs, during lacrosse, he’s not anywhere near as big, so does that mean –

“Whoa, whoa,” Derek says, as Stiles takes in a wheezing gasp and then turns away, pressing one hand against his face. “Are you – what’s wrong?”

“I, I can’t,” Stiles says. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, just, please, put that away.”

“Put – ” Derek sounds stymied for a few moments, but then there’s the rustling noise of him getting his pants back on. “Okay. I’m dressed. I – sorry. I should have warned you, I guess?”

Stiles giggles, feeling a little hysterical. “I don’t think there’s any good way to say ‘I have an enormous dick and wear tight underwear’.”

“It’s not enormous.” Derek actually sounds grumpy.

“Okay, keeping in mind that I’m a high school athlete, let’s think about how many dicks I’ve seen versus how many you’ve – oh Jesus, I think I’m going to pass out.”

Derek helps him sit down, talks him through taking several deep breaths. When he’s steadied out a little, Derek shifts and asks, “Do you want me to go?”

“No,” Stiles says, his hand closing around Derek’s wrist. “No, just . . . borrow some pants from my dad or something, okay? Mine won’t fit you.”

Derek nods a little and leaves the room. Stiles takes a few more deep breaths and then changes into a pair of pajama pants of his own, and another T-shirt. Derek will have to sleep shirtless, because nobody in the house will have a shirt that will fit comfortably over his shoulders, but he comes back with a pair of drawstring pants that just barely fit, with the string all the way out.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, crawling underneath the blankets. “I don’t know why that fucked me up so bad.”

“Because it reminded you.” Derek lies down next to him, careful not to touch him. “It’s like that. Sometimes just seeing a blonde woman will make me think about what happened back then.”

“Yeah. I just, I mean . . .” Stiles has to swallow hard before he can talk, and when he does, the words just start flooding out of him before he can prevent it. “What if he’s ruined me forever? What if I can’t ever look at a guy again? Right now I can’t even think about sex, just, the idea makes me sick and I can’t . . . I don’t want to be that way, it isn’t fair, but I don’t know what, what to do about it and . . .” He chokes off a sob and curls up into a ball.

“Hey,” Derek says quietly. “It’s okay that you feel like that. It is. I don’t know how to fix it, but we _will_. It takes time, is all, and we’ll take things slow, and that’s okay.”

Stiles wipes his forearm across his eyes. “Jesus, I’m a mess,” he says.

Derek reaches out and lightly puts his hand on Stiles’ shoulder, and when Stiles doesn’t flinch away, he rubs it down Stiles’ arm. “Yeah,” he agrees, “but I don’t mind. We’ll work it out, okay? Now you should get some sleep. You want me to stay?”

“Yeah.” Stiles nods and curls closer to him, resting his forehead against Derek’s collarbone. Derek presses a kiss into his hair, and Stiles closes his eyes. He’s starting to feel a little silly for freaking out, but Derek clearly doesn’t think he should feel silly, so he makes a conscious decision to try to let it go, and closes his eyes.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not at all sure this ending is realistic but I am sort of a sucker sometimes.
> 
> I hope you've all enjoyed the fic, thanks for reading!

 

Stiles sleeps the whole night through, which is nice, and rather unusual of late. He wakes up to the sun in his eyes and the feeling of Derek’s hand slowly rubbing up and down his upper arm. When he opens his eyes, Derek is just watching him. “You’re such a creeper,” Stiles murmurs. Derek lets out a snort of laughter. “Time’s it?”

“Nearly nine. I’m going to have to go soon. My flight leaves at one.”

“Mmkay,” Stiles says, letting out a sigh. He feels acutely aware of Derek’s gaze on him. It’s intense, but not unpleasant. “What?” he asks.

Derek reaches up and puts his hand on Stiles’ neck, his thumb rubbing over the teenager’s jaw. “I was just wondering how in the hell I had wound up here.”

Stiles lets out a snort. “Good question.”

“I mean it,” Derek says. “When I came here, I was omega. I had no pack, no family to speak of. I tried to build one, but all I did was fuck it up. Then there was you. None of this would have happened without you. Don’t start,” he adds, as Stiles opens his mouth to protest. “You’ve done more for me than I would have imagined possible. I’m not alone anymore.” There’s a brief pause. “You saved my life, you know.”

Stiles knows that he’s turning pink all the way up to the tips of his ears. “No, it wasn’t, I mean,” he says, and sees the way Derek is looking at him. He modifies what he was going to say. “I’m glad I could help. That . . . that we built this together. I think it’s more meaningful, that way.”

Derek nods slowly. “I think you’re right,” he says. His thumb traces gently, absently, over Stiles’ cheekbone. “You’re sure you don’t want to come with me?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Besides, school starts in a couple days. I’m going to have enough on my plate.”

Now the alpha scowls. “You’re not going to let anyone give you a hard time.” It’s not a question. It’s hardly even a statement; it’s more of a command.

“Nope,” Stiles says.

“Okay.” Derek relaxes a little.

“And you know, it wasn’t like you didn’t do anything for me in return,” Stiles says. “I mean, I was . . . drowning. I don’t like to admit it, but it’s true. You gave me a safe place to go. And maybe you didn’t know exactly what was going on or why I needed you so much, but you were still there for me. And after you found out . . . do you have any idea how terrified I was about what you would say or do? I thought I’d never be able to be in the same room with you ever again. But you understood. And you made _me_ understand. That it didn’t have to be . . . everything I was. It didn’t have to change everything.”

He expects Derek to protest, but instead he just nods, looking pensive. “I guess I’m not used to things in my life going right.”

“Well, get used to it,” Stiles says, “because I plan on making it a trend. In fact . . .” He swallows nervously. “I think you should kiss me. Just a little. If you want to. Okay?”

Derek nods. “I do want to,” he says.

“Just a little,” Stiles repeats.

“Just a little,” Derek agrees. He leans forward, his hand still covering Stiles’ cheek, and presses his lips against Stiles’ in a gentle, chaste kiss. Stiles lets his eyes close, and Derek pulls away after only a moment, almost before Stiles is ready.

“That was nice,” Stiles says, feeling his heart beating wildly out of control in a mixture of fear and desire that’s only somewhat unpleasant.

“Yeah,” Derek agrees.

“We should try that again like . . . in a few weeks,” Stiles says.

“Okay,” Derek says. He leans over again and presses another kiss into Stiles’ forehead. “I need to get up.”

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles says. “Me too. I need breakfast.”

They get out of bed and head downstairs. Stiles makes them scrambled eggs and toast, and both of them put away several servings. Doing the magic has apparently left him with quite an appetite. His father isn’t there, presumably out bringing justice to the world. After breakfast, Derek leaves for the airport, catching Stiles in a bear hug that lasts several minutes.

Sheriff Stilinski is just pulling into the driveway as Derek leaves. They exchange a nod, and then he goes inside. “Hey, you,” he says to Stiles, who’s scrubbing the egg pan. “Sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Did I miss anything exciting?”

“Other than a lot of people scratching their heads over Beacon Hills’ latest unsolvable murder?” Stilinski sighs and pours himself some coffee. “Not really. Where’s Derek off to so early?”

“Uh. London,” Stiles says.

His father nearly drops the pot of coffee. He gives his son a narrow-eyed look. “Something you want to tell me about that, son?”

“Uh, yeah, actually,” Stiles says. He sits down at the table and pushes both hands through his hair. “I did a lot of thinking about what you said. And, you know, about the justice system and why vigilantism is terrible, et cetera. I mean . . . you understand now part of why I wouldn’t press charges after the photos, right?”

Sheriff Stilinski sighs. “Because Jackson’s a werewolf. And unlikely to just stay in a prison cell we put him in.”

“Right,” Stiles says. “If there’s a werewolf justice system, I don’t know about it. But Derek pretty much seemed to think that since he was the one who had turned Jackson, that meant he was responsible for him. Even though Jackson’s been a terrible person since, like, birth. Anyway, I uh . . . I don’t want Derek to become a killer for my sake. Or because of Jackson. But I couldn’t live with the idea that Jackson might go hurt other people, and Derek didn’t really want to live with it either. So I asked him to go, uh, remove that with which Jackson might commit another such assault.”

There’s a long moment while Sheriff Stilinski blinks at his son. “So you’re telling me that you asked Derek . . .”

“To go rip Jackson’s balls off. Yep.”

Stilinski rubs a hand over his face. For a minute, Stiles thinks he’s angry. Then he sees that his father is trying his best not to laugh. “Oh, damn,” he finally says. “You actually . . .”

“And his dick, too,” Stiles says brightly, since his father seems to be enjoying this. “Derek said it would be his _pleasure_ to do that for me.”

Sheriff Stilinski manages to get a hold of himself and put a stern look back on his face. “Won’t . . . won’t it grow back?” he asks, and then loses it again, pressing a hand over his mouth to stifle the laughter.

“You know, I asked Derek that,” Stiles says, keeping a straight face. “And he said no. That they can heal external damage but in most circumstances, they can’t actually regrow body parts. Like if I had actually cut his arm off that time, he would have been left with one arm. And Deucalion couldn’t recover his eyesight even though he was an alpha when his eyes were wounded. But he, uh, he volunteered to stay in London and, uh, keep an eye on things just to be sure nothing regenerated.”

“Of course he did,” Sheriff Stilinski says.

“Uh, on a somewhat related topic,” Stiles says, “I’ve decided that I’m five hundred percent done taking people’s bullshit about what happened to me, so you have my advanced apologies if I get suspended or expelled from school within the first week.”

“If you defend yourself and they expel you, I’ll sue that God damned school into the ground,” his father replies.

“Sounds good to me.” Stiles downs the last of his coffee. “I’m heading over to Scott’s. He’s talking about getting a tattoo and I need to insult his taste in body art. Yes, he has his mother’s permission, don’t narrow your eyes at me like that. Oh! Can I borrow some money?”

“What for?”

“Boyd wants to take Erica out on a nice date before school starts again but he can’t afford it, and he felt awkward asking Derek after everything Derek’s done for them. I’ll pay you back.”

His father shakes his head a little but takes two twenties out of his wallet. “I’m glad you’re okay hanging out with your friends again,” he says.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Me too.” He shoves the money in his back pocket. “I’ll see you later.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

School starts two days later, while Derek is still gone. Stiles gets up early, showers, shaves, and gets dressed in an Incredible Hulk T-shirt with his typical plaid over it. He makes an egg white omelet for his father and eats Pop-Tarts for his own breakfast. Then he loads his backpack up with notebooks and pencils and everything else he’ll need for the first day of school and gets in the Jeep.

He’s explicitly told the others that he doesn’t want to be protected or sheltered upon his return, but he doubts that he can stop any of them from taking matters into their own hands if someone makes a comment about Stiles to them. He doesn’t let that worry him. He gets his class schedule, unloads his extra things into his locker, and heads to class.

There are a few surreptitious stares and whispered comments, but it’s not as bad as it was the spring before. Things have happened over the summer; there are newer, juicier rumors going around. A girl in their class is pregnant. A senior got busted for drugs. Two of the teachers got caught hooking up during summer school. And of course, rumors are flying about Boyd and Erica’s return, since most people assume they ran away together and then had to come slinking back when they ran out of money. Erica is helping distract people from Stiles by basically being all over Boyd at every opportunity. Boyd doesn’t seem to mind.

So he makes it all the way to third period before he gets another text. Third period is gym. He changes in the locker room along with everyone else, and when he gets back from the class, he’s gotten a text asking if he enjoyed being ogled by all the boys. He forwards the text to Lydia. She returns it with the owner of the phone number less than four minutes later. It’s a junior named Kevin Swanton.

Stiles waits until lunch. Then he spots the offending junior in the lunch line. He walks up behind him, sees the telltale shape of his phone in his back pocket, and simply picks it out. “Hey – ” the boy says, turning.

Stiles holds up the phone and says, “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘if you don’t have anything nice to say, shut the fuck up?’ It applies to texting, too.” With that, he drops the phone to the ground and slams his heel down on it.

“You piece of shit, you can’t – ” Kevin protests.

Stiles grinds his foot down on the already broken phone, just to prove his point. Half the cafeteria has gone silent to watch this confrontation. “In case nobody thought to tell you,” he says, “I’m five hundred percent done taking everyone’s bullshit about this. You want to text me nasty messages? It’s a free fucking country. Just be prepared for the consequences.”

He turns and walks off. Scott gives him a high-five as he sits down at their table, and Lydia leans over to give him a kiss on the cheek.

Now the rumors are really flying, and Boyd and Erica’s summer fling is all but forgotten. He gets bombarded with some of the most vitriolic text messages that he can imagine. He notes down every number. Lydia identifies the perpetrator. He starts signing them up for every e-mail and text message spam list that he can find. It’s child’s play to guess half a dozen of their Facebook passwords and start posting embarrassing status updates.

“How was school?” his father asks him that evening.

Stiles smiles at him and says, “It was fine.”

The sheriff gives him the side-eye but decides against asking for details. Stiles spends the evening ordering pizza delivery for some of the most obnoxious parties.

The rumors that piss him off most, though, are the ones involving Derek. Without a better suspect unavailable, everyone has come to the idiotic conclusion that Derek was the other person in the photographs, and that either a) Stiles is terrible at enjoying himself in the sack, or b) Derek is an abusive jerk that Stiles stays with out of cowardice and stupidity. Stiles is far beyond the point of caring what his classmates think about him, but he doesn’t want Derek getting the same giggles and whispers every time he steps into a convenience store.

With that in mind, he pulls Danny aside the next morning, as they’re heading into the locker room for gym class. “I need to talk to you,” he says. “Gym class can manage without us.”

Finstock will be pissed, of course, but Danny is his darling so he won’t get in trouble. They change slowly and wait until the locker room has cleared out. “What’s up?” Danny asks.

“Look, I wanted to give you a head’s up,” Stiles says, “because by noon today the school is going to be losing their shit over a new rumor that won’t be a rumor. Because the next time someone accuses my actual boyfriend of being the one who raped me, there’s going to be an incident.”

“You have a boyfriend now?” Danny says. “That’s awesome, man.”

“Uh, yeah.” Stiles actually flushes a little pink. “Remember my, uh, ‘cousin’ Miguel? He’s totally not my cousin, I just made that up because . . . actually it’s a long story, I’ll tell you about it sometime, anyway, his name is Derek and we’re dating now.”

Danny considers this. “He doesn’t look anything like the guy in the photo,” he finally says.

“I know, but people are stupid, and anyway, I’m going to start telling people who actually raped me, and I wanted you to hear it directly from me first.” Stiles squares his jaw, seeing the confused look on Danny’s face. It should be easy, but it isn’t. He doesn’t want to hurt Danny, doesn’t want to make him feel bad, but he needs to know. “It was Jackson.”

Danny actually physically recoils from this statement, stumbling over his own feet. “Jackson wouldn’t – Jackson would _never_ – ” he stammers, and Stiles waits for him to get through it. “Jesus,” he finally says, rubbing his hands over his face. “Does Lydia know?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says.

“It was really . . . you’re not messing with me?”

“I wouldn’t do that and you know it,” Stiles says wearily. “He said he wanted to teach me a lesson for the way I flirted with Lydia.”

Danny winces again, just as hard. “Jesus,” he says. “I knew there was a lot of stuff going on with him, but . . .”

“He was drunk. I was drunk. I’m not saying that excuses his behavior, I’m just . . . saying. He raped me and he filmed it and he told me to go kill myself afterwards,” Stiles says flatly, watching Danny rub a hand over his face. “And then he posted the pictures all over the school because he was pissed at me for . . . some other stuff, I don’t know, it’s a long story.”

They stand in awkward silence for a minute.

“Look,” Stiles says, “you don’t have to . . . say anything. Or be okay. Or anything like that. I just wanted you to hear it from me, because you _are_ going to hear it before the end of the day.”

Danny nods, slowly and painfully. Stiles turns and walks away.

It takes less than twenty minutes. Stiles misses a catch in the basketball game they’re playing and one of his classmates says tauntingly, “Your boyfriend must have really worn you out last night, huh? I hope the sex has gotten better since your first time.”

Stiles retrieves the basketball and says complacently, “You know that Derek isn’t who’s fucking me in those photos, right?”

The other guy leers at him and says, “Who else would be willing to fuck you?”

“Jackson Whittemore,” Stiles says, voice calm and even, and pretty much everyone on the court stops to stare at him. “And it wasn’t consensual. Any other questions?”

Everyone is too stunned to have any.

He only gets a few text messages this time, most of them accusing him of slandering Jackson’s good name. Most of the people at school are learning not to mess with him. By the end of the day, he’s surprised to find that the rumors going around are mostly accurate, and he suspects that the rest of the pack has been contributing. Everyone basically agrees that Jackson and Stiles were both drunk, that it was at Lydia’s party, and that Jackson had been pissed at Stiles for hitting on Lydia. There are some variations, but it’s mostly accurate.

Lydia’s getting a fair share of the attention, but she handles it with her usual poise and grace, simply stating that she hadn’t known, and it’s a good thing that she didn’t find out until after Jackson had left. Among other things, she tells everyone, it was an insult, an implication that she couldn’t take care of herself and wasn’t allowed to talk to other boys.

Since Jackson is gone, the rumors pretty much stop there. Stiles still gets his fair share of stares and whispers, but nothing he can’t handle. Eventually, he thinks, they’ll forget it and move on.

When he leaves school that day, he sees a familiar Camaro in the parking lot. He finds a new spring in his step, which surprises him, as he heads over to it. Derek gets out and leans against the fender, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. “Hi,” Stiles says, feeling a little awkward, but excited.

“Hey,” Derek says. He reaches out, but then hesitates. “Can I, uh . . .”

“Sure.” Stiles steps into his embrace, letting Derek rub a cheek over his hair, scent marking him. It feels nice. “How was your trip?”

“I feel jet-lagged,” Derek says, “and it rained the whole time. But I got what I went for.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, relaxing a little to hear that everything went as planned, which probably makes him sick.

“You want to go back to the loft for a while?” Derek says, and Stiles nods. Derek even opens the door to the car for him. Stiles thinks about reminding him that he has his own car, but then realizes that this is just one of Derek’s ways of trying to take care of him. He gets in without protest. Derek gets behind the wheel. “Did I miss anything exciting here?”

“Well, Allison’s back from France,” Stiles says, and sees Derek’s jaw set in an unhappy expression. “She seems to have recovered from drinking Gerard’s Kool-Aid. She apologized to Isaac for stabbing him. He said whatever. She apologized to Erica and Boyd for shooting them full of arrows. Erica slapped her across the face and Allison didn’t hit back. So, you know, progress. She and Scott are awkwardly avoiding each other and throwing each other moony glances across every classroom, so they’ll be having sex by the end of the week, probably.”

Derek gives a snort of laughter. “Teenaged romances.”

“You do realize that I’m still a teenager, right?”

“Yeah, but we’re nowhere near that incompetent,” Derek says. “Yeah, we took a while to get here, but at least we actually talked it over like adults.”

“Fair,” Stiles says, feeling cheerful.

A few minutes later, Derek pulls into the loft parking lot. They head upstairs. Now that they’re in privacy, Derek pulls him into another embrace, marking him again, running his fingers through Stiles’ hair in a motion that’s amazingly intimate and strangely soothing. “Are you hungry?” he asks. “I could make you something.”

“I’m always hungry,” Stiles says, “but uh . . . Jackson first.”

Derek nods. He takes out his phone and pulls up a video, then hands it to Stiles. Then he walks away, going into the kitchen. Stiles turns his attention towards the screen. Jackson was coming into a room that looks like some sort of warehouse, saying hello. Derek greeted him casually and told him that they had rescued Erica and Boyd. “I got a lot of help from Stiles, though,” he said, and Jackson scoffed. Derek kept his expression even and continued, “He’s actually become a pretty valuable member of the pack. He told me a funny story the other day . . .”

Jackson knew when he was caught. He started to backpedal. He tried all the things that Stiles had known he would say if it ever came up in a courtroom. They were drunk, Stiles came onto him, it was just a bit of fun, he hadn’t realized Stiles wasn’t enjoying himself. Derek waited until he gets through all of his defenses, all of his excuses. Then he just said in a voice that was soft and deadly, “Did you think I was going to believe any of that?”

Jackson tried to run.

He didn’t get far.

After that it’s a lot of screaming and blood, and Stiles watches it because he _needs_ to, he needs to see it. It doesn’t bring him any real happiness, but he thinks that’s a good thing. He doesn’t want to be that sort of person. It does bring a sense of relief, an air of finality, and perhaps a little sneaking satisfaction.

Derek left Jackson huddled on the floor, crying, in a position that’s eerily similar to the way Jackson had left Stiles that day. Then he walked over to pick up the phone, and the video ends.

He slowly becomes aware of Derek watching him from the door to the kitchen. He looks up, nods, and says, “Thanks.”

“Are you okay?” Derek asks.

Stiles nods. He taps a few buttons to delete the video off of Derek’s phone. He doesn’t want to see it again, doesn’t want anyone else to see it, and doesn’t want evidence of a violent assault lying around. “Yeah.”

“Are . . . _we_ okay?”

Stiles knows what he means. The type of ferocious violence that Derek had displayed on the video was unnerving. But it was for him, and Stiles knows that. He knows that Derek can be vicious when he needs to be. So he just nods again and says, “Yeah, we’re okay. Did it grow back?”

Derek rolls his eyes at Stiles and says, “No. I told you it wouldn’t. And yes, I checked.”

“That must have gone over well,” Stiles says, thinking about Derek marching back into wherever Jackson was lurking two days later and just yanking his pants down. Jackson must have pissed himself. Messily. “Hey, do I smell bacon?”

“You said you were hungry,” Derek says. “It’s just ready-made, you know, I threw it in the microwave. I’ll make some waffles.”

“Cool,” Stiles says. He walks over and hoists himself up to sit on the counter.

“How are things between you and Scott?” Derek asks, rooting around in the freezer for a package of Eggos.

“They’re okay. He still feels a little awkward, but I figure if I act normal long enough, he’ll eventually get it. In the meantime, he’s helping me kick the shit out of anyone who bothers me, so, you know, that’s okay. How’s Cora?”

“Still a little . . . edgy,” Derek says. “But I think she’ll be okay. You know. She needs time, that’s all. Wherever she was, it wasn’t a nice place.”

“Well, we’ll take care of it, whatever it is,” Stiles says. Derek glances over at him and nods. A few minutes later, he hands Stiles a plate of waffles and bacon. Stiles drenches his waffles in syrup and starts eating.

“You know what I was thinking might be nice,” Derek says, “is to go down to the city this weekend, before the semester really revs up and you’re buried in work. You know, I know you probably went to a lot of the places I recommended, but I thought it might be nice to go there together.”

Stiles glances up, nods, and smiles. “Yeah,” he says, “that sounds like fun.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

When Stiles gets home, there’s take-out from his favorite Greek place on the table. He gives his father a suspicious look as he roots around in the refrigerator for a beer. “What’s going on?” he asks. “I’m not getting a surprise party, am I? Because I don’t think my heart could take it.”

“Your school called me today,” Sheriff Stilinski says, popping the top off his beer. He hands Stiles a soda. “Something about how some students have been complaining about you breaking their phones, defacing their lockers, and otherwise harassing them?”

“And stealing their girlfriends,” Stiles agrees cheerfully, taking the lid off a container and stealing one of the dolmades. “I only defaced one locker, and the way I defaced it was to write the exact text he sent me on it so everyone could laugh at his terrible grammar.”

“Apparently you’ve also been slandering Jackson Whittemore’s good name,” his father continues, his voice a little more tight.

Stiles sighs. “I got really tired of everyone presuming it was Derek in the photos after some people saw us together. All I said was that it was Jackson in the photos, and it was nonconsensual. Anything else, the rumor mill generated on its own. Or they heard it from other members of the pack, I guess.”

His father reaches out and hooks an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into an embrace. “I’m really proud of you,” he says.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, hugging back as hard as he can. “So I’m not grounded?”

“Not yet,” his father says, laughing as he lets go. “Like I said, your school called me to express concern. I told them that they were welcome to mete out whatever disciplinary measures they felt were appropriate, and that I in turn would be consulting with a lawyer to find out what my options were to address the way they all looked the other way while you were being bullied. That took the wind out of their sails. But don’t go defacing any more lockers.”

“It was washable marker,” Stiles says. “They should count themselves lucky I didn’t use a Sharpie.”

He starts dishing himself up some of the food, and passes his father a plate. They eat in silence for a few minutes.

“Hey, uh . . .” Stiles says, pushing some of the potatoes around on his plate. “I think . . . I want to see a therapist. About . . . all of this.” He sees his father looking at him over his fork, a little bit of surprise on his face. “Because . . . Derek and I have this thing, right? It’s a good thing. I really like him. But just . . . the thought of sex makes me queasy. Hell, the thought of _kissing_ makes me queasy. And I know I’m only seventeen, and Derek’s obviously got his issues too, so it’s not like we’re going to rush into anything. But I don’t think . . . that this is something I’m going to be able to fix on my own, just by _wanting_ it. I think maybe some, uh, some professional help would be a good idea.”

Sheriff Stilinski lets out a breath. “Yeah, of course,” he says. “I’ll look into it. Do you mind if I talk to Melissa about it? She might have some suggestions.”

“Sure,” Stiles says. “And uh . . . I’d rather it be a woman. You know.”

His father nods. “I’ll find someone.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says.

“You don’t need to thank me, kid,” Stilinski says. “I’m your father. It’s my job to take care of you.”

“And you do a great job,” Stiles says, reaching for the salad. He takes some of it and then nudges it closer to his father, who gives it a dirty look. “I mean it. I couldn’t have done any of this without you. Just . . . knowing you were there for me.” He abandons his dinner and scoots his chair around the table so he can lean his cheek against his father’s shoulder. The sheriff reaches up and puts an arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer. “It’s funny, because when I think about the whole ‘wheel of fortune’ thing, the concept of ‘what goes around, comes around’, I think . . . maybe it’s a good thing, what happened to me. Like, we can’t ever know how things would have been different, right? And if Jackson hadn’t hurt me, hadn’t put those photos up all over school, I never would have gotten so close to Derek, and then who knows what would have happened. I mean, if I hadn’t run away to San Francisco, I wouldn’t have heard Morrell talking to that girl, and we might never have found Erica and Boyd.”

“Snowflake universe?” his father suggests.

Stiles grins. “So you _do_ actually listen when I talk about science fiction.”

“Sometimes,” he grumbles in response. “But that is what you were getting at, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I mean . . . what happened was awful, but . . . maybe it all works out in the end. Maybe it made me stronger.”

“I wouldn’t settle for anything less,” his father says, and Stiles closes his eyes and rests his weight against his father’s reassuring strength. He thinks that he’s going to be okay.

 

~fin~


End file.
